


Do Warehouse Agents Dream Of Artifact Sheep?

by AlpertLPine



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure, Gen, Philip K Dick, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:02:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlpertLPine/pseuds/AlpertLPine
Summary: Pete and Myka are on the trail of an artifact that seems to create effects straight out of certain science fiction works. Meanwhile, back at the Warehouse, Claudia has her own literary-inspired experience.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The following story takes place towards the end of Season 1, after the events of 1.07 (Implosion), but prior to the final episodes of that season and the confrontation with MacPherson... so let's say, in between 1.07 (Implosion) and 1.10 (Breakdown), although mention of series events is minimal.

1

**BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA**

A bell over the glass door clanged as Secret Service Agent Pete Lattimer pulled open the entrance to the Avenue Thrift Shop. He held the door while his partner, Agent Myka Bering, hustled inside, and then promptly followed after her.

"Remember, Pete," said Myka, as he came even to her shoulder, "the artifact could be anything in here." She emphasized with her eyes the rows and rows of second-hand clothing, the shelves lining the walls packed full of miscellaneous knick-knacks, assorted odds and ends, and various housewares. "So don't touch anything. Three people are already in the hospital."

"I know, Mykes." Pete feigned a hurt look, then a moment later wrinkled up his nose. "Smells like mothballs in here."

Myka cocked her head. "We need to clear this place out." She withdrew her badge and held it ready in one hand, drawing the Tesla in the other. Not standard Secret Service issue. But then, Pete and Myka weren't standard Secret Service Agents. The Tesla was a special weapon, designed and named for master inventor Nicola Tesla, which produced bursts of electricity that could stun a target. It was capable of doing lethal damage if used on the full power setting. The Tesla looked something like a futuristic ray gun even though it was a century old.

"Ma'am," said Myka, sliding up to a woman shopping nearby with two young boys climbing over her shopping cart. She flashed her badge. "Secret Service. I'm afraid I need you to evacuate this thrift store."

"Evacuate?" The woman looked at Myka, incredulous, a T-shirt in her hands held up for inspection.

"I'm afraid so."

"It's fifty percent off every color except green tags today. You must be out of your mind if you think I'm—"

"Ma'am." Myka's voice took on an edge. "National Security. I'm gonna have to insist. The, uh, president is in town and, uh, possibly stopping by this location to, you know, to shop," she finished lamely.

Grumbling, the woman cast Myka a dirty look, laid the T-shirt haphazardly over the rack of other shirts, and then yelled at the two boys to stop messing around and to behave. Together, the woman and her sons moved away to the exit. Myka watched them until the bell clanged and they pushed their way out into the California sun.

"Hey Mykes, check it out." She turned her head.

Pete was holding up an incredibly tacky, polyester leisure suit—matching lime green coat and pants, with a large-collared floral-patterned shirt. He struck a disco pose, his free hand raised and index finger extended towards the ceiling, Travolta-style.

"Pete, I said not to touch anything."

"Pretty sure this thing couldn't kill anyone, Mykes."

Myka arched an eyebrow.

"It's not . . ." Pete craned his neck peering down at the leisure suit in front of him. "It's not that bad." A glance up at Myka. "It's . . . okay, point taken. You think this could be the artifact?" He tossed it quickly away from himself onto the tile floor as though it were venomous, eager to be away from it.

"Pete!" Myka looked disapprovingly towards her partner, and he appeared momentarily cowed. "Don't touch anything else. Now, help me get the rest of these people out of here." A handful of other shoppers still dotted the narrow aisles. Along the back wall, mostly obscured by full racks of clothes, was a check-out counter with a single cash register where the only visible employee of the thrift store was stationed. A few customers waited in line. She cocked her head. "Come on."

Together, the pair strode forward toward the back of the store, badges held aloft.

"Secret Service, official business," called Pete. "Everyone has got to go. Sorry."

"We need everyone to step outside in an orderly fashion, please. Don't be alarmed."

Confused shoppers paused, glanced around, and slowly one by one filed out of the cramped thrift store, the bell jingling each time the door was pushed open, until Pete and Myka were left alone with the cashier, who stood glaring at them from behind the counter. The man was middle-aged, brown hair thinning and combed to one side, large nose. Light blue, button-up, uniform-style shirt. The name tag pinned on his chest read, Dale.

"What's the big idea, driving out all my customers?" He looked from Pete to Myka and back. "I'm the manager here. Dale Turner. What's going on?"

"Secret Service," said Myka, stepping forward.

"Something is making people really sick in here, buddy," said Pete, "now tell us what it is."

"Sick?" The man looked confused. "Is this about Heather Beauchamp? My employee?"

"The first of the victims to fall ill," Myka said over her shoulder to Pete.

"Is she okay?" asked the man.

"No," Myka replied. "She's not. She's worse. And two other people are sick now, too. We think they came into contact with something here in your store."

"Something here?"

"Is there anything new in the store? Something maybe old or odd. An antique, perhaps?"

"There's new stuff like that in here every day," the man said, exasperated. "It's a thrift store."

Looking around, Pete said, "It does look like a few garage sales got together and decided to start a club in here, Myka."

"Anything extra unusual?" she continued. "Something that Heather might have touched and also maybe a couple of your customers?"

The thrift store manager shrugged helplessly.

"Myka, look!" Pete was pointing. She followed his finger.

"What is it?" His finger seemed to be pointing at—

"Whoa! That's awesome!"

A Lava lamp.

Pete rushed to the shelf where the vintage red Lava lamp sat silent and dark. Unplugged. "Does this work?" he asked, turning back to the man behind the counter, eyes and mouth wide like an excited kid. As he did, he noticed Myka's dark look. Pete's face dropped, and lowering his head, he forced his hands into his pockets. "You know what, never mind." Tried to act like he didn't care. "I'll just . . ." He cleared his throat. "You were saying, Myka."

"We need to go through your store," she told the man, "and find whatever is making people sick. Do you mind locking the front door?"

"Do I mind? Sure, what would I need customers for?"

"Lock the front door," Myka snapped, and the man jumped, and then muttering under his breath hurried out from behind the counter and past Myka's stern glare, towards the front of the store.

"Alright," said Myka quietly, coming to stand beside Pete. "What exactly do we know?"

Pete, back into serious agent mode, said, "Heather and the other two victims first complained about trouble breathing, and it's only gotten worse. A lot worse. And fast."

Myka nodded. "The doctor at the hospital said that tests showed each of them had lung damage equivalent to decades of cigarette smoking, like they'd been lifetime pack-a-day smokers."

"Only none of them smoke. Right, so we're looking for some sort of smoking-related artifact?" Pete glanced around the messy store. "Hugh Hefner's smoking jacket, maybe?" Myka pursed her lips and studied the shelves over Pete's shoulder. Pete continued, "Bill Hick's zippo lighter? Audrey Hepburn's cigarette holder?"

"Use the Farnsworth to call Artie," suggested Myka, who then stood back and waited for Pete to withdraw the odd device from his pocket. The Farnsworth, created by genius inventor, Philo Farnsworth, was a handheld communicator which allowed video communication between users. In many ways, it was more useful and reliable than a modern phone, despite being decades old. Like the Tesla, the Farnsworth was a special tool designed to aid Agents like Pete and Myka in their field work. Not ordinary Secret Service work, but their newer, top secret work as Agents of Warehouse 13. Working for the Warehouse, their primary job was to find objects that were endangering the world, and safely neutralize them. These dangerous artifacts, some world-threatening and others more localized (but often just as deadly), were then securely stored away in Warehouse 13, a massive structure tucked deep in the empty landscape of South Dakota.

Artie's face appeared on the screen of the Farnsworth.

"Artie," said Myka, standing at Pete's shoulder so that both would be visible on the screen of Artie's Farnsworth, "we've connected all the victims to this thrift store, but"—she glanced around at the messy, cramped shelves around her and Pete—"this place is a mess."

"You're going to have to take your time and check everything in there."

"We're thinking it must be some kind of smoking artifact," chimed in Pete, "like a lighter or—"

"An ashtray," said Myka.

"Yeah, or an ashtray."

"No, Pete. There." Myka was pointing. "Ashtrays." About a dozen varied glass and plastic ashtrays were arranged on a nearby shelf. "It could be one of those."

Myka approached the collection of ashtrays, slipping on the purple neutralization gloves that would keep her safe from the potential effects of any artifacts. Pete followed, still holding open the Farnsworth. From the other end of the communication device, in his office in the Warehouse, Artie watched.

"There are any number of ashtray artifacts," Artie told them. He began shuffling through notecards, digging for some examples. "Check them all."

Myka, gloves on, began lifting each of the ashtrays and examining them more closely. One in particular, an old-looking square ashtray with a brownish hue to the glass, caught her eye. She lifted it up and held it aloft.

"Here, Pete. I think this is it." She presented the bottom of the ashtray to Pete and to Artie via the Farnsworth. "The initials etched into the bottom. See? RJR."

"Of course," said Artie, growing excited. "Richard Joshua Reynolds. R. J. Reynolds tobacco company. He created Camel cigarettes in the early 1900's. No one else was making pre-packaged cigarettes at the time. Everybody was rolling their own back then. His Camels were a huge hit. He made a fortune, and RJR became one of the Big Tobacco giants."

"That's it, then," said Pete, "bag it." He watched with satisfaction as Myka whipped out one of the artifact-neutralizing bags and dropped the glass ashtray in. They both looked away as the ashtray entered the bag, and a shower of sparks and energy were discharged into the air as the bag did its job on the artifact, neutralizing its power.

"Alright!" exclaimed Pete. "We got it."

"I'll call the hospital and see if there's any change in our victims," said Myka.

"Good job, you two," said Artie, "I'll see you when you're back here." His face disappeared from the Farnsworth screen, which went dark. Pete closed the two metal halves of the Farnsworth together, and then stuffed the device back into his pocket.

"Wh-what did you do with my ashtray? What was that bright flash?"

Pete turned his head. The thrift store manager, Dale, was watching them with wide eyes. "Whoa, hey there. Good news, we took care of the, uh, problem. So no more, boom"—Pete made a motion, waving his hand over his chest—"whammy, instant lung disease to worry about."

"Instant what?"

"You know, lung"—Pete reiterated the same hand-waving movement—"spread by, umm, you know."

The confused and mildly frightened man said, "Was this some sort of biological terror attack?"

"Yes," said Pete, "exactly," while simultaneously, Myka, stepping in, said, "No."

The two agents glanced at one another.

"Not exactly," said Pete. "Well, sort of. Mykes?"

"Pete, I just got off the phone with the hospital. All three of our victims seem to be completely well again. They're going to run a few tests to be sure, but it looks like the damage to their lungs has been reversed."

"Alright then. Crisis averted. Score another one for Bering and Lattimer." Pete turned back to the thrift store manager. "See? Everything is fine."

Myka spoke to him as well. "Your employee, Heather, and the others probably just had a severe allergic reaction to, uh, an impurity in the glass of this ashtray. So we'll just take it with us, so that tests can be run to determine the exact cause. Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Turner. Dale."

"Seriously, who are you people?" Eyes wide, the man backed up a step, directly into the corner of a freestanding shelving rack. The metal unit, jarred by the impact, swayed and shook.

"Look out!" shouted Pete. A few objects teetered and fell. Including the vintage red Lava lamp that he had noticed earlier.

Startled, the thrift store man hopped out of the way as the shelves rattled and objects toppled. The Lava lamp fell onto its side and rolled to the edge of the shelf, seemed almost to hang there for an instant, and then plummeted towards the floor—

—and into Pete's waiting hands, as he slid across the tile floor and underneath the lamp's downward trajectory. "Gotcha! Haha!" He looked up at Myka. "Did you see that?! Who's got butter fingers now, Ralph Brunsky?"

 

  
**SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH DAKOTA**

Several hours later, Agents Bering and Lattimer were walking through the front door of Leena's Bed and Breakfast, and into the familiar wood-paneled confines of the downstairs common room. The isolated location of the Warehouse and the nature of the work there required its Agents to stay close by; this cozy bed and breakfast provided a comfortable place for the Agents to reside and to call home. And of course, Leena, the proprietor, was well aware of the secrets of Warehouse 13 — indeed, her job included duties within the Warehouse itself. In many ways, the B&B was an extension of Warehouse 13. Sort of an office away from the office. And Pete and Myka were both presently permanent guests there.

Artie was waiting as they entered.

With him was Claudia Donovan, the young woman who only recently had joined the team. She had managed to crack the Warehouse's cyber defenses in order to find Artie and force him to help her brother, Joshua. Together with Pete and Myka, they had rescued Claudia's brother, who had become stuck for many years within a pocket dimension of space-time thanks to a powerful artifact and a fateful science experiment gone awry, one in which Artie had played a role. Now back in the real world safe and sound, Joshua lived in Switzerland and worked at CERN, on the cutting edge of particle physics research. Claudia, meanwhile, had been accepted into the Warehouse fold and despite her young age, the teenager had proven herself valuable on several occasions. She was a natural whiz with computers and technology of any sort, and always quick with a playfully-barbed remark, especially at the expense of Artie's age. Seeing Claudia, with her dyed red hair and punky fashion sense standing beside Artie in his comfortable earth-tone clothes, his salt and pepper hair and bushy eyebrows, and his grumpy exterior, the generation gap seemed almost physically tangible. But the pair had more in common than either would care to admit aloud, and their initially strained relationship had grown into something strong.

"Welcome home, you two," said Claudia.

Myka held aloft the silver polyethylene artifact bag triumphantly. "One R. J. Reynolds' Glass Ashtray, snagged and bagged."

"And check it out, you guys," said Pete, withdrawing something from a brown paper sack. "Tada!" In his hands, he held the vintage red Lava lamp that he had saved from destruction. "Check out this bad boy. Pretty cool, huh?"

"What is that?" asked a horrified Artie.

"It's a Lava lamp, Artie. You must of seen one before. Man, these things are awesome!"

"I know what it is. I meant, why do you have it here?"

Lips pursed, Claudia asked, "Did you guys stumble into Artie's old college dorm room?"

"Ha ha, very funny, child. I'll have you know that I never owned anything as garish as one those lamps."

"That's right," she laughed. "Back when you were a teenager, torches were the hip new thing. All the cool kids had one."

Artie held up an index finger in warning. "Watch it."

"I thought it would look great in the warehouse," said Pete. "Make your office a little more chillax, you know?"

Artie turned on him. "That is not going anywhere near my office, do you under—" He looked at Pete. "Chillax? How many teenagers am I working with? We save the world every single week from that office. Dangerous artifacts are out there threatening to ruin everyone's day in all sorts of horrible and lethal ways, and we're the only ones preventing that, and you want the office to be more _chillax_?!"

Pete brought his hands up in mock surrender. "Whoa. You're right, Artie. You're already totally chill. My bad."

Artie opened his mouth to reply, then saw Claudia from the corner of his eye smirking, and belatedly caught Pete's further jab.

"It's cool, Artie," Pete said, before the other could retort, "we'll just keep it right here at the B&B." He walked towards an endtable beside the couch, eyeballing whether it was a good location for the Lava lamp. "Up the cool factor a bit."

At this Artie chuckled. "Oh no, Leena is not going to let you put that monstrosity in here."

"What? Leena will totally dig this lamp." Pete looked around. "This lamp has awesome vibes. Where is Leena, anyway?"

"Out," was Artie's curt reply. "Running an errand for me. Now take your new toy up to your room and out of my sight, and then get to the Warehouse."

"That's right," announced Pete. "I'll just go put this baby in my room." He hefted the Lava lamp proudly. "Which you all are not allowed to visit on account of being total squares, by the way."

"Whatever, dude," said Claudia, laughing. "The man-smell emanating from your room is enough to keep us all away."

"Hey," said Pete, mock hurt, "I can't help it if I naturally ooze machismo."

Claudia shuddered. "So gross."

"Enough!" said Artie, waving his hands. "Go, go. Meet us at the warehouse. Myka, stay with Pete. Don't let him dawdle. And bring that ashtray. Claudia, come along."

"Yes, Papa Bear."

Artie's hand whipped towards Claudia, finger raised. She met his glare, deflecting it with a sideways grin.

"I have a sudden urge to start collecting vinyl records again," said Pete, bounding up the stairs to his room.

"And hurry up," Artie called after him. "We have work to do."

 

***

  
In his room on the second floor of the Bed and Breakfast, Pete set the vintage Lava lamp onto the nightstand next to his bed. He stuck the old two-pronged plug into the wall outlet and stepped back. Nothing happened. "Ah-ha." Reaching out, he found the switch on the cord and clicked it on. The Lava lamp flared to life.

And sat there.

"Well, the bulb still works," he said to Myka. Pete peered at the glob of wax resting at the bottom of the glass vessel. "Come on," he urged, eyeing the blob. "Do your thing."

But nothing happened.

"Pete," said Myka, "I think it needs time to warm up first, before it starts, you know. Flowing." Distractedly, she glanced around the room. "When was the last time you cleaned up in here, anyway? It's a pigsty."

After a minute waiting for the lamp to begin moving like he expected, Pete sighed. "Guess it needs to heat up for a while.

"That's what I just said."

"Right," Pete said, staring at the lit lamp with his hands on his hips. "Do your thing," he told it. Without looking away, he said to Myka, "We'll leave it here to warm up, and in the meantime, let's go see what's got Artie so grumpy. Grumpier than usual."

Myka was looking at the lamp, too. "Yes," she said. "Let's."

 

***

  
"Inventory."

"More inventory?" Pete looked over at Myka, who was managing to maintain a neutral expression. "Aww man, Artie. That sounds—"

"Super fun and exciting?"

Pete shook his head. "I was gonna say"—then seeing Artie's eyes narrow—"yes, exactly that. Both fun and exciting."

"Bah!" Artie waved Pete's concern away. "The Warehouse is full of dangerous objects of unimaginable power, Pete. This is our job. And keeping up with inventory is an important part of that job, and—"

An incessant beeping from the computers nearby interrupted Artie.

"And we have a ping!" announced Claudia, rushing into the rolling chair and sliding over in front of the monitor.

"Saved by the ping!" said Pete happily.

"To be continued," Artie said, holding up his finger. He hurried over to where Claudia was seated, and stood at her shoulder, peering at the monitor.

Pete and Myka followed, standing nearby.

"What is it?" asked Myka.

"Looks like you're going to"—Artie squinted—"Berkeley, California. Hmm."

"Berkeley?" said Pete. "Artie, we just came from there."

"Well, apparently you're going back."

"But we got the ashtray. The hospital said the people affected were completely healthy again."

"This is not the ashtray," Artie replied, reading information on the screen. "No, no. This is something different. Martin Chambers, thirty-three years old, server technician for a Silicon Valley tech company. Was chased by a group of concerned citizens, who were convinced that he was"—he paused, unable to believe the words on the screen—"who were convinced he was actually a robot created by extraterrestrials, sent here to infiltrate humanity, and that he was packed full of powerful explosives."

"Oh, man!" exclaimed Pete. "Is the guy alright? Did the crowd catch him? They didn't hurt him did they?"

"No, Pete," said Artie, oddly quiet. "The crowd didn't do a thing to him."

"That's good. Then, he's okay?"

It was Claudia who answered, wearing a stunned expression, and speaking to both Pete and Myka. "He is very not okay," she said slowly. "Dude exploded."

Pete exchanged a shocked look with Myka.

"Go. Now," said Artie. "Get to Berkeley and find out what happened before it happens again."

"But Artie," said Myka. "I mean, Berkeley again? What are the odds—"

"Berkeley or Boston or Budapest. It doesn't matter. No, this is clearly some other artifact, not the Ashtray. The fact that it's also in Berkeley is just a coincidence." He shooed them away with a wave of his hands. "Now go, get back to Berkeley."

"But you always say that there are no coincidences."

"And there aren't. Except when there are," he snapped, making Myka flinch. "Now go. Go, go! Find the artifact before anyone else explodes. And be careful." Pete and Myka turned to leave. Claudia began to rise from her seat, but Artie pushed her back down into the chair. "Oh no. You and I, young lady, are going to get working on the Warehouse inventory. In fact, I have a special task just for you." He chuckled at the irritated groan she made in reply.


	2. Chapter 2

2

**BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA**

**. . . AGAIN**

  
"What kind of artifact could make someone explode?" Pete asked aloud as they drove to the hospital to interview witnesses. The very same hospital where the victims affected by R.J. Reynolds' Glass Ashtray had been taken. "I think I saw a movie like this once."

"It can't be a coincidence," Myka said, staring out the window at the empty early morning streets they'd been driving just the previous day.

"Artie said—"

"Artie says a lot of things, Pete. And he also never tells us everything he knows." She shook her head, glanced at her partner. "I don't know — this doesn't feel right."

"Well then, let's say they're connected. What does R.J. Reynolds have to do with people exploding? Or robots, for that matter? And if the ashtray is still active, then why did the sick people in the hospital get better?" He nodded his head towards the front windshield, where ahead, the hospital was just becoming visible. "Speaking of."

"I don't know, Pete, but it's not a coincidence that we're here in Berkeley again. Right? It can't be."

He pulled their rented SUV into the hospital parking lot. "Well, let's talk to some people and figure out what we're dealing with."

Myka nodded, and silently returned to staring out the side window at the familiar hospital they had visited just a day earlier.

 

***

 

"Who are you?" said the man in the hospital bed. His right leg was strung up and in a cast. A deep cut over his left eye was stitched and bandaged. "I already told those other detectives everything I remember."

"We're not detectives," said Pete, coming to stand beside the man's bed. He withdrew his badge. "Secret Service." Behind Pete, Myka held out her badge as well.

"Secret Service? I figured Homeland Security, maybe. Not you guys. You investigate terrorism too?"

"We're investigating this case," Pete told him. "I'm Agent Lattimer. This is Agent Bering."

"Ned Shallet. That's what it was wasn't it? Terrorism? Suicide bomber?"

"Is that what you think happened?"

"What else could it have been?"

"You told the police immediately after . . . whatever happened, that you thought that the guy was a robot packed with explosives." Pete met the man's eyes. "That he was sent here by aliens."

"Yeah, well that sounds crazy, doesn't it? I'd nearly been blown to bits. I wasn't thinking straight. I didn't know what happened."

"But now you do?"

Myka interrupted. "Mr. Shallet, have you had contact recently with anything strange? Maybe an ashtray?"

"An ashtray?" He scrunched up his brow, then shook his head. "No, nothing strange."

"How are you feeling? I mean, besides your leg, obviously. How's your breathing?"

"Just fine. Look, what's this about?"

"We just want the truth," said Pete. "Now, listen, Ned. We deal with crazy all the time. Crazy doesn't bother us, okay? We pretty much deal exclusively in crazy. So, what can you tell us about what really happened out there?"

Ned opened his mouth as though he was about to repeat his previous statement, but he paused. Then, he sighed. "Look," he said. "I can't explain it. But I can remember how certain I was."

"Certain of what?" Myka asked.

"Certain that that guy wasn't human. That he was a robot meant to blend in with us, and that he was concealing a powerful bomb inside of him."

"What made you think that?"

Ned shook his head. "I don't know."

"Think, Ned. What made you think he was a robot?"

Ned shrugged. "I just looked at him and I knew. That's all I remember. There were already a few others who had noticed, pointing at him. We . . . we started chasing after him. Calling for help. For the police to come. We chased him for a while, until we trapped him in this dead-end alley between a couple of stores. He turned and faced us. He said . . ." Ned lowered his eyes. "He said . . ."

"What?" pressed Myka. "What did he say?"

"He said he wasn't a robot. That he was human. He looked afraid. Scared to death actually."

"Then what happened?" Pete asked softly.

"That's when he blew." Ned closed his eyes, remembering. "I was lucky. I was far enough back. The blast threw me down. When I came to, paramedics and police were all over the place. Not everyone made it."

Pete and Myka shared a look.

"Even now," continued Ned, "I can remember how obvious it seemed. That this guy wasn't human. That he'd been sent here to kill us. I know that sounds crazy. I mean, it was just some scared guy that we were all chasing after. But I was so certain." He looked up at Pete and Myka pleadingly. "What's happening to me? What happened to _him_?"

"You're going to be just fine, okay?" Myka spoke soothingly to the man. "Just get some rest. Thank you for your time."

She turned, and went to the door.

Pete met her in the corridor.

"Well?" he asked.

"If Ned came into contact with an artifact, he seems fine now."

"Did all those people come into contact with an artifact at the same time? The police report says there were two dozen people in that alley, chasing after the guy that exploded. Oh yeah, not to mention the guy that exploded, Myka. What else could cause that other than an artifact? So did Martin Chambers blow up because of an artifact—"

"Or was it everyone else who was affected by the artifact?"

"But something made Chambers explode, Mykes—"

"And at the same time all those people imagined he was a robot full of explosives."

Pete nodded. "So an artifact turns him into a literal droid bomb, and the others were just seeing the effect?"

"Unless . . ."

"Unless what?"

"Unless there are two artifacts."

For a moment, the two Agents considered the ramifications of two artifacts acting together in unison, possibly wielded by a single person, or perhaps, however unlikely, just coincidentally in the same place.

Pete suddenly staggered, sucked in a sharp breath. "Whoa, Mykes."

"What is it?"

"Vibe. Strong one. We have to go, right now."

Together they rushed down two flights of stairs and out a side exit into the morning sun. Pete hurried down the sidewalk towards where their rental SUV was parked. At the curb, he paused.

Myka stopped at his shoulder. "Okay, Pete. We're outside. Where exactly are we going?"

  
Pete looked around, trying to recapture the feeling of the vibe, so strong just a moment before. But now, it was merely the memory of a feeling. He tried to remember what the vibe had been, precisely. Something bad, he was sure of that.

As he pondered, sirens gradually became audible, distant at first, but growing louder. Pete looked at Myka. The sirens grew louder still. Several police cars came into view, one after the other, racing down the street in front of the hospital, zooming past.

Pete grinned, and Myka flashed one of her own in reply.

"I'm guessing that way," Pete said.

They hurried into their vehicle.

A moment later, they were speeding away from the hospital, following the path of the distant police cars up ahead.

 

***

 

When they neared what was obviously the scene — several police cars, red and blue lights flashing, had been joined by an ambulance — Pete slowed the car. The police were gathered at the base of a tower apartment building. A second ambulance was arriving on the scene as Pete parked the SUV.

"This doesn't look good," he said, exiting the vehicle.

Together, he and Myka approached the officers gathered around the entrance to the apartment building. Flashing their badges, they found an officer who appeared to be in charge. "I'm Agent Lattimer," said Pete, and then indicated Myka, who introduced herself: "Agent Bering."

"Secret Service?" said the cop, studying their badges. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, we saw you boys racing past in a big hurry. What happened here, Officer . . ." He left a blank for the man to fill in his name.

The cop frowned. " _Captain_ Fuller," he said after a moment. He studied Pete with eyes hidden behind mirrored shades. "And what? You thought you'd swing by and rubberneck my crime scene?"

"Whoa there, Protect and Serve, there's no need for—"

"We just came from the hospital," Myka cut in, "where we talked to a man injured when another man near him _exploded_. So maybe you two boys can skip the pleasantries and you, Captain Fuller, can answer my partner's very simple question."

The police officer peered at Myka for a long moment before acquiescing. "Alright then," he said, "got a guy who went through this building door to door with a rifle, blasting anybody who happened to answer the door. We think he shot about five or six people before our guys got here and nabbed the lunatic."

"Holy cow," said Pete. "You took him alive?"

"Yes we did. Might have put a couple holes in him that weren't there before, but we got him." Fuller chuckled.

"Do you know what set him off?" asked Myka.

Fuller made a face and shrugged. "What set him off, I imagine, is that the guy's completely nuts."

"What makes you say that?"

  
"What makes me that say that is I got a bunch of witnesses that report he was knocking on random doors, accusing the people inside of being androids, and then shooting them."

"Androids?!" Pete looked at Myka.

"Pete, you know what this means."

"This just became our case." Grinning, Pete held his hand up to receive a high-five. Myka shook her head a little. She made a face at Pete with just her eyes, and then shook her head a little more. "Mykes, come on, don't leave me . . . right, yeah." Pete lowered his hand, tugged at his belt, and turned to face Captain Fuller. "People were shot. How many, uh . . ."

"Five or six."

"So, yeah. No high fives," Pete mumbled, looking down.

"You said you took the shooter alive," said Myka, moving on. "We're going to need to talk to him right away."

"Well, you're in luck. Agent Bering was it? Agent Lattimer?" Captain Fuller pointed towards the entrance to the apartment building. "They're bringing him out right now."

Loaded onto a stretcher being wheeled out by two paramedics lay an obviously injured man. His blue jeans were splattered with blood, and one of the pant legs had been cut away. A thick wrap of bandages, a hint of red dotting the center, was wound around the man's thigh. He was lying on his back, but appeared conscious. He grimaced as the paramedics dropped the stretcher over the curb to the asphalt of the parking lot. A police officer walked along just behind the stretcher.

Captain Fuller called out, "Ortiz! These two agents are gonna have a word with our man there." He indicated Pete and Myka, who were already striding over to the rear of the closest ambulance where the stretcher had stopped. The officer, Ortiz, acknowledged the info with a wave of his hand, and watched disinterestedly as Pete and Myka approached.

"What's your name?" asked Pete, on one side of the stretcher, leaning close.

The man looked up, beads of sweat apparent on his forehead. "Steve," he gasped. "Steven Pouty."

"We have a few questions for you, Steve."

The man, Pouty, nodded, and then groaned.

"Does it hurt bad?" asked Pete with genuine concern.

"Yeah," the man replied, his voice steadier. "It hurts."

"Why'd you shoot those people, Steve?"

"I had to."

"You had to?" asked Myka, standing across from Pete. "Why?"

"I-I don't know. I just I knew I had to retire six of them."

"Retire?" Myka glanced at Pete. "Why do you use that word?"

"Because they were . . . I mean, I _thought_ they were androids." He squeezed his eyes shut. Voice ragged, he said, "They were people. I shot six people."

"Yeah?" said the nearby officer, Ortiz, who was listening in. "Well, good thing you're a lousy shot, you nutjob. Four of them will live for sure, and the other two might pull through." He leaned closer to the stretcher. "You better hope they pull through, dirtbag."

"Okay, easy there," said Pete, urging the police officer back.

Myka also turned her attention to Ortiz. "Did anyone else report seeing androids? Or, you know, life-like robots? Anybody else see what this guy saw?"

"Are you nuts, too, lady? He shot half a dozen people because he thought they weren't people. Everyone else here is sane."

She turned back to the man on stretcher. "Steve, why did you have to shoot them exactly? When did you first start to believe that these people were androids that you had to kill? What were you doing?"

"I . . ." The man shook his head and grimaced. "I don't remember exactly, I was just . . . all of sudden I just knew I had to grab my rifle and find them."

"And shoot them?"

Quietly, Steve Pouty said, "Yeah."

"That's enough questions for now," announced Captain Fuller, coming over. "Let's get this guy outta here." He waved for Ortiz and the two paramedics to move Pouty and the stretcher into the waiting ambulance.

"We may have more questions for that man later, Captain Fuller," said Myka.

"Not sure what you're investigating," the captain replied. "Nutjob went in there and shot some people. We went in there and got the nutjob. Case closed." He looked Myka and Pete up and down and then strode away, calling out to one of his other officers, who was securing the entrance to the apartment building.

Myka and Pete huddled some distance away.

"Well," said Pete, "what are we thinking? A bunch of people see what they think is a robot which then explodes, and now one person sees a bunch of robots and shoots them. So we're looking for something that what? Turns people into robots temporarily?"

"I don't know, Pete. Two dozen people saw Chambers as a robot packed with explosives, and then he actually did blow up. Here, we have Steve Pouty, who believes that he had to kill six people because they were"—she paused, thoughtful—"not robots, Pete. He called them androids."

"Androids, robots. What's the difference?"

"Words are important, Pete. None of the witness reports from the first incident used the word, 'android'. They all insisted Chambers was a robot. So why the change? Why did Steven Pouty see androids? And with Chambers, everyone saw him as the danger; but here, Pouty was the dangerous one, dangerous to the androids. It was like"—she looked meaningfully at her partner—"it was like he was hunting them, Pete."

"We should call Artie." He reached into a pocket and withdrew the Farnsworth.

Just before he snapped it open, he and Myka looked up at the sound of shouted voices and running boots. Several of the assembled police officers, at Captain Fuller's shouted orders, were running to their squad cars.

"Hey, Fuller!" shouted Pete. "What's going down?"

Captain Fuller glanced up, saw Pete and Myka, and looked briefly irritated. "Just got the call. Potential double homicide at the Pacific Shopping Center. Five minutes." He ducked into his cruiser. A second later, the engine roared to life. Fuller peeled out, tires squealing, siren blaring, following after two other police cars already burning rubber towards the street.

Pete looked down at the Farnsworth in his hand. "Hold that thought," he said, tucking the device back into his pocket. He and Myka raced to their rented SUV, and a moment later they were pulling out onto the street, racing after Fuller and the other cops.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

3

**SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**WAREHOUSE 13**

"Alright, Claudia," said Artie through the Farnsworth, "you should just about be there."

"What's the name of this aisle I'm looking for?"

Artie cleared his throat. "I told you. The Aisle of Lonely Souls."

Claudia looked down at Artie's face in the Farnsworth. "That's the actual name?"

"If I tell you the actual name are you going to remember it?"

"Doubtful," she replied, continuing deeper into the vast, maze-like layout of the Warehouse. "So is this some sort of commentary on my complete and utter lack of a social life, Artie? Because if so, you probably could have found a more tactful . . ." She trailed off as she entered the designated aisle. "Alright, I'm here," she said, eyeing the nearest artifacts, scanning the informational readouts next to each. "What am I supposed to be doing exactly?"

"Ah." Artie's face drew closer in the Farnsworth and his voice took on the tone he used when something that Claudia was sure to find incredibly dull totally excited him. "Well then," he said, "some of the artifacts in the Warehouse need . . . more attention than others. They like to be noticed. Acknowledged. Remembered. They want to know someone is thinking about them. And if they're left alone too long, they get, ahem, irritable."

"Aww, you never told me you were an artifact, Artie. So what exactly am I supposed to do? Talk to them? Tell them stories? Give them hugs?"

"No. No! Don't touch them. They're artifacts. Unstable ones at that. Just, you know, be yourself. Spend a few minutes of your time there. Let them feel your presence. Take inventory."

"Uh-huh." Claudia glanced at a few of the artifacts on the shelf beside her. A baseball glove. A pair of champagne glasses. A rectangular glass window resting upright on the shelf. She moved closer. That was interesting. "Why couldn't you be the one to come down here and keep the lonely artifacts company?"

"Oh no, not me," said Artie. "No, a couple of the artifacts down there and I do _not_ get along."

"What? No!" Claudia feigned shock. "And you with that charming personality of yours?"

Artie opened his mouth to retort, then growled and grumbled, and instead said, "Normally Leena takes care of the more delicate tasks like this, alright? But she isn't here today, okay? So you're taking care of it. And also because I said so. Pretend they're plants or something."

"Artie, I kill plants."

"Goodbye, Claudia."

"Did you send me down here just to get rid of me?"

Artie's face disappeared and the Farnsworth screen went dark.

"Fine then." She stuck her tongue out at the blank screen and razzberried.

Tucking the Farnsworth away, she glanced around. On the shelf near her head, her eyes fell once more on the empty baseball glove.

"Strange," she said. "Suddenly, I really want to play catch."

Shaking her head, she walked a few steps and stood before the window that she'd noticed earlier. It was about two feet wide and four feet tall, and consisted of two parts; the lower portion was meant to slide up and open. It was framed in aged wood painted white and looked as though it belonged in an old house. Her reflection was just visible looking back at her in the glass pane — bright red hair with a streak of blue. Round, pale face. Presently she stuck her tongue out once more.

She peeked at the screen containing the artifact's information. Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window. Her lips curled into a grin. "Cool." She leaned closer. Was there something on the other side? It almost appeared to be the outline of a room, eerily familiar. The shadows of furniture, hints of color.

Her next exhale fogged up the glass, obscuring whatever it was that seemed to be right on the other side. "Damn." Without thinking, she reached out and wiped the glass clean with her sleeve. There. Now she could see better. There was definitely something on the other side. It _was_ a room. It looked like . . .

She peered deep within.

It was Artie's office.

 

***

 

After talking to Claudia and setting down his Farnsworth, Artie crossed from the computer to the filing drawers, which lined the walls from floor to ceiling in one corner of the cluttered Warehouse office. "Charming personality," he said, grumbling. "I'll give her a charming personality." He picked up scattered papers on the nearby tabletop, studied them absently, briefly forgetting what he was looking for. "I can be charming. And where are Pete and Myka?" he asked the empty office. "Bah!" He tossed aside the papers, which weren't what he was looking for, and then yanked open one of the filing drawers. He began to dig through the numerous cards within, still muttering under his breath. Each card was filled with some tidbit, some piece of miscellaneous history, clues to finding artifacts or to understanding them, scraps of historical data, and most of it not making a lick of sense until the moment it did, usually exactly when it was needed. It was the Warehouse catalog from before there were computers. Still superior to computers at times, despite what Claudia would say. That impudent girl! "So much to learn," he muttered, but warmly.

A sudden sharp pain in his upper chest made him wince and grimace. He straightened, and braced himself with one hand on the wall. With the other hand he massaged the left side of his chest. He groaned as the pain receded. He tried to relax. He was tense. Too tense. And irritable. And—

"Ow!"

He staggered as the pain flared again in his chest. His left shoulder and arm began to tingle and ache.

"Okay," he said, beginning to breathe heavy. "This isn't good." He felt his pocket. No phone. He glanced towards the desk, where both his phone and Farnsworth rested. He tried to take a step on wobbly legs. "Not good at all."

Again the pain came.

Artie stumbled and slipped to the floor. His outstretched hand briefly found the edge of the table, scattering papers there as he fell, the sheets floating down to land beside him on the Warehouse floor.

He grimaced as the pain became agonizing. "Not good at all," he groaned.

 

***

 

"Artie? Artie!"

Claudia staggered, and suddenly was back in the Warehouse, in the Aisle of Lonely Souls. The wood-framed window of Emily Dickinson was just in front of her, returned to plain wood and glass. She'd been looking through it _into_ the Warehouse office. It had felt so real, like she was there. She could see everything so clearly. She could even hear Artie.

Oh no! Artie!

She whipped out her Farnsworth. "Come on, Artie," she pleaded. "Answer." The Farnsworth buzzed and buzzed, unanswered. "Come on, come on, come—"

"What?!"

"Artie!" His face peered up at her, irritated, from the Farnsworth. "Is it really you? Are you okay? I saw you collapse and . . . are you really okay?"

"Whoa, Claudia. Slow down. Take a breath."

"You were having a heart attack. I mean it looked like a heart attack. I mean, I've never actually seen anyone have a heart attack, but I assume it would look like—"

"Claudia! What are you talking about? I didn't—" His eyes narrowed. "What happened exactly? Tell me, exactly."

"I saw you," she said, remembering to breathe now. "You were there in the office. You were going through one of the file drawers, talking out loud to no one by the way, and then you started making noises like you were in pain. You grabbed your chest. You collapsed, Artie."

"What do you mean you saw me? How could you have seen me?"

"I saw—"

"What a minute." His face grew larger in the Farnsworth. "Claudia?"

Sensing that Artie was really okay and that she was now about to be in trouble, Claudia said meekly, "Yes, Artie?"

"Were you looking through Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window?"

"Umm . . . maybe?"

"Maybe?"

"Maybe yes? Phrasing, by the way, Artie. You make me sound like a huge creep."

"Claudia, Emily Dickinson spent much of her adult life locked away inside her bedroom, never leaving, experiencing only what she could see from that window. She was a very depressed person." Artie shook his head. "All throughout her life, everyone she ever cared about died, one after the other. She stared out that window, watching life happen through it, but no longer taking part. The window has the power to show you people that you care about, but it's imbued with Emily's dark depression. Through the window you see the ones you care about, but it warps the image so that you always see them dying."

"Okay, that is dark."

"But Claudia, Claudia. You know this means, don't you?"

Sensing a trap, she said warily, "The Window's broken?"

"It means that you care, Claudia. That you care for me. That's so sweet." And then Artie began to cackle.

"Okay, Artie. You know what? I was going to tell you to watch your cholesterol and exercise more, but you're probably fine. Have a donut."

She snapped shut the Farnsworth and stared at Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window. "What are you looking at?" she asked her faint reflection.

 

 

 

**BERKELEY**

"Say that again, Artie." Myka was looking down at the image in the Farnsworth while Pete drove. They were still following Captain Fuller and the other police cruisers.

"I said, there are lots of artifacts that can seem to have multiple effects. The fact that both these incidents involved someone believing someone else was a robot makes me think this is a single artifact."

"But Steve Pouty used the term 'android', Artie."

"Yeah," said Pete, leaning over towards Myka, but keeping his eyes on the road. "And Martin Chambers actually exploded. Nobody imagined that."

"Alright," said Artie. "Clearly it's a little more complex than simply creating robot delusions in the witnesses."

"And androids," Myka added.

"That too. I'll have Claudia look into artifacts that might be connected to robotics"—he peered at Myka through the Farnsworth—"and androids. And also ones that would have the ability to cause someone to explode. Maybe it's some sort of self-fulfilling artifact. What if he exploded because the group chasing him believed that he would?" Now Artie was mostly talking to himself. "Could be something that generates a belief and turns that belief into solid reality." He looked back to Pete and Myka. "Keep me updated on any new developments. Out."

His face vanished from the Farnsworth screen.

Myka closed the device and tucked it away.

"Looks like we're here," said Pete, pulling the SUV into the vast shopping center parking lot. He angled towards where the three police cruisers had just raced to a sudden, tire-squealing stop. "Got here in a lot less than five minutes, too. More like three."

"Pete, look."

Captain Fuller and the other officers exited their vehicles, and now they approached the wide double doors that led into the shopping center. Each of them had their weapon drawn. They hustled into position on either side of the entrance, sending away terrified bystanders with stern get-back waving motions.

Pete parked at the curb behind one of the police cruisers. He and Myka got out and crept cautiously towards where Fuller was positioned. Myka held the Tesla ready. Pete drew his regular standard-issue handgun. The police captain saw the two Agents coming, narrowed his eyes, and then motioned them to stand nearby out of the way.

"Forty-five seconds," called Fuller. "We got this guy."

"Forty-five seconds until what?" Pete whispered to Myka.

She shook her head. "I don't know."

A short squeal of tires and the sound of an impact in the parking lot nearby caused Pete and Myka to twist their heads around. A blue sedan, pulling into a parking space, was sitting at an awkward angle half within an empty intended spot. The front end of the sedan had impacted a parked SUV in the next spot over. The SUV's alarm began honking and wailing.

"Hold your positions!" Fuller called.

Pete and Myka exchanged looks. Concerned for the occupants' well-being, Pete moved to go out and check on the driver and passenger visible inside the sedan.

"I said hold your positions," Fuller snapped.

Pete glanced over, hesitated. When he looked back out to the crashed sedan, the driver and passenger were exiting the vehicle. The driver was a young man, probably just a few years out of his teens, and the passenger was a similarly aged woman. Relieved to see that they appeared okay, Pete relaxed.

"Here we go!" said Fuller. "Be ready."

A middle-aged man dressed in a grey suit was just exiting through the shopping center's wide double doors. He glanced up, not immediately noticing the police presence stationed out of sight to either side of the doors. His eyes were drawn to the sound of the honking car alarm, the sedan pressed up against the SUV only a few spots deep in the parking lot, and the man and woman standing around peering at the damage.

"That's my vehicle!" he shouted, face contorting in rage. "What the hell did you do?!"

The man and woman looked over, eyes growing wide. The angry man in the suit advanced a couple of steps, reaching for something inside his suit jacket.

"Now!" cried Fuller. "Bring him down!"

The man's head jerked around in surprise.

Two officers raced towards him. Fuller and another officer pointed their weapons at the man. "Don't move an inch!" the captain yelled, "or we will shoot you."

The man forgot about whatever he'd been reaching for and threw his arms in the air.

An instant later, the two cops arrived and tackled him to the ground. Holding him prone, they placed handcuffs on the man. One of them reached down, dug into the guy's suit jacket, and then raised his hand, holding aloft a pistol. "Got his weapon," announced the officer.

Fuller and the third officer now approached, guns still drawn and pointed at the pinned man. "David Winston Abelson, you are under arrest for the future murders of Thomas Stratton and Angel Ramirez."

Pete and Myka shared a shocked look.

"Oh my God. He was going to shoot them, Pete. For a minor fender bender in the parking lot."

"Lucky thing Fuller and his boys were here," Pete said, then paused. "How the heck did they know that was gonna happen, Mykes?"

"Fuller said, the 'future murders'. Almost like—"

"Minority Report, Mykes." He snapped his fingers. "Oh, man! They knew it was going to happen before it happened."

"My God, Pete," said Myka, grabbing his arm, "I think I know what's going on."

"Great! What in the heck is going on?"

"Minority Report!"

"Exactly! Wait. Huh?"

"You said it yourself, this is just like Minority Report. And Steven Pouty, Pete. He was hunting life-like androids. Hunting them. As in bounty hunter. That's just like—"

"Bladerunner with Harrison Ford. Holy cow, so we're dealing with some sort of artifact that brings awesome science fiction movies to life!"

"Not just movies, Pete. They have something else in common besides that. Both were based on source material written by the same person. Philip K. Dick. Bladerunner was originally a novel called, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?"

While they huddled, two of the police officers were loading the man they'd just arrested, David Abelson, into the back of one of the police cruisers.

"Alright, Mykes, what about the first guy? Martin Chambers. The guy who exploded. Did this guy Philip Dick write a story like that?"

"I'm not sure," she admitted. "I really haven't read that much of his work."

"What? Books that Myka Bering hasn't read?"

She shrugged. "He was a bit too pulpy for my taste."

"Not enough sweet, sweet love-making?"

"Pete! Don't be gross."

"Don't think I didn't see that copy of Fifty Shades of Grey you were trying to keep hidden at the B&B."

"My mom recommended that book to me, Pete," she said defensively. "Anyways, I didn't even finish it."

The police cruiser with David Abelson in the back began driving away. The siren sounded once, and then the car sped off, lights flashing. Captain Fuller was standing nearby, talking into his radio. One other officer remained on the scene, presently interviewing the two people from the blue sedan who had bumped into Abelson's car. The two would-have-been victims had the police not arrived in time to stop the shooting from happening.

"Mykes!" said Pete, snapping his fingers. "It _is_ movies. I remember now. Chambers getting accused of being a robot bomb in disguise, exploding. I remember! It's a movie called Impostor. Not the greatest piece of cinema ever, by the way. It's got that one guy. You know. He was Lieutenant Dan. So we're dealing with an artifact that brings movies to life."

"Maybe," said Myka, "but I'll bet you that movie was also based on a Philip Dick story."

"Well, we have the Farnsworth. Let's ask Artie."

"Do it," she said, nodding.

"You have the Farnsworth, Myka."

"Right," she said, flashing an embarrassed smile. "Right." She shook her head as though to clear it.

Before she could dig into her pocket, Pete reached out and touched her arm. He nodded his head in the direction of Fuller. The police captain was watching the pair of them warily, still speaking into his radio. "Captain Protect and Serve over there is giving us the evil eye, Mykes."

"Do you think he could have the artifact?" she asked. "We still don't know what it is."

"Well, we know that he's here now. And we know that he was at the apartment building where Pouty shot those people. It's not so hard to imagine that he was also at the scene where Chambers exploded."

"We have to figure out what the artifact is, Pete."

"Yeah we do. Before Darth Vader or the Terminator shows up next." In an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice, he said, "I need your clothes, your boots, and your motorcycle."

Myka scrunched up her forehead.

"I'm looking for Sarah Connor."

Myka shook her head.

"No?" asked Pete in his normal voice. "Nothing? Really?" He tried again. "I'll be back."

Myka opened her mouth to respond, but suddenly Fuller was there.

"Pete Lattimer and Myka Bering," said the police captain, eyeing them both. "United States Secret Service."

"That's us," said Pete with a forced laugh. He glanced sideways at Myka. "And you're Captain Fuller, Berkeley PD. So we still all know each other's names."

"I've checked and re-checked," said Fuller, "just to be certain, and it seems there's no record of any Secret Service Agents with those names."

Myka waved off his concern. "Well, we work for a super secret branch of the agency."

"Very hush hush," Pete agreed

"Super secret Secret Service, huh? I went ahead and dug a little deeper, and no one by your two names has _ever_ worked for the Secret Service, or any government or law enforcement agency for that matter. In fact, I haven't found any record of either of you existing at all."

"That's ridiculous," said Myka.

"You obviously didn't search hard enough," added Pete. "I mean, here we are." He waved his arms. "We're standing right here. Obviously, we exist."

Fuller made a small motion with his head, a signal towards the other remaining officer. That officer was no longer interviewing the almost-victims; instead, he was cautiously approaching Pete, Myka, and Fuller.

"You are standing right here," Fuller agreed, "so why don't you tell me who you really are."

"Secret Service," said Pete, pulling out his badge again, frustrated. "Pete Lattimer. And she's Myka Bering. Also Secret Service. Look, pal, I don't know what you're using exactly, but we're on to you."

"On to me?"

"Yeah, we know you're using something. To catch bad guys before they kill someone. To make Steven Pouty think he's shooting androids instead of people. To make Martin Chambers explode. So tell us how you're doing it."

"Pete," said Myka.

Captain Fuller's face was growing darker by the word.

"And tell us why you're doing it. What do you gain from all this?"

"Pete."

"What artifact have you got, huh? Possessed movie scripts? A rare collection of Betamax tapes?"

"Pete!"

"What?" He turned his head. Myka was shaking hers urgently, making be quiet pleas with her eyes.

"I've heard about enough," Fuller growled, motioning to the second officer. "You're out of your mind. And if you won't tell us who you really are—"

"Wait, what?" Pete scoffed. "You think we have something to do with this?"

"Pete, look out."

In a fluid motion, Myka drew and fired the Tesla, zapping the officer coming up beside Pete. He fell to the ground crackling with electricity. The taser in his hand fell from his limp fingers to the ground.

Fuller's eyes grew wide, but he hesitated only a second. He pulled out his weapon, but Pete was moving now. They struggled for a moment, fighting for control. The gun clattered to the sidewalk. A moment later, Pete wrestled around behind the police captain and held his arms pinned. "Mykes," he said, breathing hard.

"I Tesla-ed a police officer, Pete."

"You can apologize later," he grunted, struggling with Fuller. "A little help."

Myka shook her head to clear it, and turned towards Pete and Fuller. She wound up and delivered a cracking fist to the police captain's chin. He sagged limp in Pete's arms. Gingerly, Pete set the groaning man onto the sidewalk.

"Pete," said Myka, shocked, "I just punched a police officer."

"Yeah, you did," said Pete, impressed. "Remind me never to make you angry, Myka Ali." He began shadowboxing, bouncing and throwing punches.

Myka looked around, surveying the two downed cops. A small group of onlookers was gathering. "What are we going to do?"

Pete surveyed the growing crowd. "Now," he said, gathering up Fuller's dropped weapon, "we run."

"Run?"

He hurried to the rental SUV parked by the curb. To Myka, he said, "Yeah, we run. If it's good enough for Tom Cruise, it's good enough for me."

"Pete, you know this isn't actually Minority Report, right? This is real."

They climbed into the vehicle.

"Tell that to David what's-his-name that those cops just arrested for a crime he hadn't committed yet."

He put the SUV in gear and sped away.

After a minute, Myka said, "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"I'm just surprised you saw a movie that's all."

"I watch movies."

"Sci-fi movies?"

"Sometimes," she answered guardedly.

"You have a thing for Tom Cruise, don't you?"

"What? No!"

"Ah!" Pete raised a finger, grinning wide. "Colin Farrell."

Myka tightened her lips, but said nothing.

"You do!" Pete laughed, triumphant. "You have a thing for Colin Farrell."

"I do not," Myka muttered, looking away out the passenger window.

"Colin and Myka sitting in a tree."

"I will punch you." She showed Pete her fist. "Remember? Myka Ali?"

Pete snapped his mouth shut and made a zipping motion across his lips. After a minute, he turned to Myka. "So what do we do now?"

They stared at one another, before realization dawned on them together.

In unison they said, "Call Artie!"

 


	4. Chapter 4

4

"Ah, Mrs. Frederic, listen I—" Artie's face peered up at Pete and Myka from the Farnsworth. "You're not Mrs. Frederic."

"Artie, it's us," said Myka. Pete leaned over close to her shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road as he drove the SUV.

"Who? How did you—?"

"It's us, Artie. Look, we're kind of in trouble."

"This guy, Captain Fuller of the Berkeley PD," said Pete, "we think he's causing everything that's happening. He must have an artifact and now we think that he's managed to erase all of our personal records somehow. Even our cell phones have been shut off. It's like we don't even exist." Pete spared a second to glance from the road to the Farnsworth. "Artie, are you listening? We're in trouble here."

"I'd say you're in trouble," Artie growled.

"But you can help us," said Myka. "Right, Artie?"

Ignoring her, Artie continued, "Hacking into an extremely sensitive and"—looking over his shoulder at someone offscreen—" _supposedly_ secure communications system."

"Don't look at me." Claudia's voice from somewhere out of sight. "I didn't design the Farnsworths."

"No," growled Artie, "but you've been messing with them."

"Hey, I have not been messing with them. Much."

"Artie!" called Myka.

On the Farnsworth screen, Artie turned his attention back to Pete and Myka. "I don't know who you are, or how you hacked into the Farnsworths—"

"What?"

"—but I'm going to find you. Rest assured."

"Someone hacked into the Farnsworths?" asked Claudia. Her face appeared in the screen over Artie's shoulder. "Not likely."

"Artie, stop messing around," pleaded Myka. "You're freaking me out."

Claudia's fingers grew large as she messed with knobs on the Farnsworth just below the screen on her end. "I don't think they're hacking in, Artie."

"It's us!" Pete said. "Pete and Myka? We didn't hack anything. We have our own Farnsworth."

"Impossible!" said Artie.

"How else would we be talking to you on one, Artie? Do we look like we could hack anything to you? Claudia's the hacker. Not us. By the way, nice hair, Claudia. All black, huh? Very emo. I like."

"Pete," said Myka, "the road."

"Thanks," said Claudia, pleased. "Thought I'd try out something new." Then, "Okay, this is too weird. Do you know me? Do you know us?"

Artie shook his head. "I will find you. Whoever you two are—"

"Hold up, gramps," said Claudia, "let's just let them explain who they are before we throw them off our lawn, okay?"

"Thank you, Claudia," said Pete. And to Myka, "This must be Fuller. Somehow he got to our records. He's even gotten to Artie and Claudia."

"It doesn't make any sense, Pete," she replied. "Fuller may have been near all the incidents here, but he couldn't have been anywhere close to the Warehouse to use an artifact on Artie or Claudia."

"What do you know about the Warehouse?" demanded Artie. "Exactly how much do you know?"

"What do we know about the Warehouse, Artie?" said Pete. "We're Warehouse agents. Why do you think we're calling you? Why do you think we have a Farnsworth? How else could we know you and Claudia? And Mrs. Frederic! Mrs. Frederic hired us both. She'll tell you. And Leena—"

"Pete." Myka urged him back on track with her eyes.

"Alright, alright," said Artie. "Let's just say you're telling the truth. Hypothetically," he emphasized into the Farnsworth. "Tell me everything that's happened to you. Have you come into contact with anything strange or unusual. Do you smell—"

"No fudge, Artie," said Pete. "Look, we know what we're doing."

"We got a ping," said Myka. "Berkeley, California. A man here was chased by a crowd because they believed that he was a robot sent to Earth by aliens and that there was a bomb concealed inside of him. Sounds crazy, I know. And then he actually exploded."

"So we came to Berkeley," said Pete.

"Again. We'd just been in Berkeley getting R.J. Reynolds's Glass Ashtray. We found it in a thrift store here. But you said Berkeley again was just a coincidence."

"No, no," said Artie from the Farnsworth, "It's never just a coincidence."

"That's what I said!" Myka replied happily.

"Except when it is just coincidence." Artie waved a hand. "Go on."

"Next," said Pete, "a guy thinks he's taking out androids, but he's actually shooting people."

Myka continued, "Then, just now at a mall, the police arrest a guy for killing two people _before_ it happens. They were there waiting right where they knew he'd be and stopped him from doing it."

"Holy Philip K. Dick, Batman," said Claudia.

"Right?!" Pete grinned. "We figured it out, too, Claud. Minority Report. Bladerunner."

"Precisely, Boy Wonder. And that first one, the one that caused the ping, is a short story called, Impostor."

"Yeah, we know," said Pete. "They're all movies."

"And now it's Flow My Tears," she continued.

"Flow my what now?"

"Flow My Tears, The Policeman Said."

"Never heard of that movie."

"It's not a movie, it's another one of PKD's novels. The main character is this world-famous television celebrity, like Ryan Seacrest with a plus-ten charisma modifier, until one day he wakes up and his entire life has been totally erased. Like he never existed. No one remembers him. There's no record of him anywhere."

"Is that us, Pete?" asked Myka. "Are we the ones that have been whammied? Not Artie and Claudia, but us? Have we been erased?"

"So what's the artifact?" Pete asked. He and Myka exchanged looks with Artie and Claudia. No one had an answer.

"Berkeley, California makes sense, though," said Claudia. "Philip Dick grew up there. He went to high school in Berkeley, and he lived around there for years. Man, this is so gnarly."

"Okay," said Myka. "So what do we know? All of the people affected by the artifact experience something from a Philip K. Dick story. Chambers was affected, and he exploded. Steven Pouty was affected, he thought he was hunting androids. The guy at the mall was arrested for a crime he hadn't committed—"

"Pre-crime," said Claudia.

"Right. And now we're affected."

"Mykes, the effect seemed to wear off the others after a while, right? I mean, the witnesses who saw Chambers as a robot with a bomb realized after that they'd been mistaken. And after Pouty was arrested, he knew that he'd been shooting people, not androids."

"That's right," she agreed. "We don't know about the guy arrested at the mall, but it's possible the effect on him or the arresting officers will wear off too."

"Which means, maybe it will wear off us?"

"Alright," said Artie. "Listen. For now, we're still not sure what the artifact, whatever it is, even does exactly. Where are you now?"

"On the road."

"You should check in with the Berkeley PD. Find out if this pre-crime effect that helped them stop that suspect at the mall from killing before he actually killed anyone, if that effect is still active."

Pete and Myka shared a look.

"What?" said Artie, noticing. "What is it?"

"Small problem there, Artie."

"I might have Tesla-ed one of the police officers," admitted Myka. "And then punched another one out."

"One punch knockout?" asked Claudia, eyes wide.

"Can confirm," said Pete. "The lady punches pretty hard."

"Alright then. Find somewhere to lie low, a motel or something," said Artie, grumbling. "I don't know. Give Claudia and I time to look into it on this end." He stared directly into the Farnsworth. "Pete. Myka." He said their names as though trying out the sound of them. "We'll figure something out."

"We know you will, Artie," said Myka. "Thank you."

"Hey, Claud," said Pete. "How do you know so much about Philip K. Dick anyway?"

"When I was in the psych—" She quickly snapped her mouth shut. "Research. Psych . . . ology research department. As a student. At school. When I was a student—"

"It's okay, Claud, we know you were in a psychiatric hospital for a while."

"You do?"

Pete nodded. "Yep."

"Okay, that's a little disconcerting. I don't know anything horrifyingly embarrassing about you. Anyways, I read everything the guy ever wrote while I was in there. In the, uh, psych hospital. I mean, you spend time in one of those, PKD is practically required reading."

"We'll figure something out," Artie reiterated, leaning forward. "Stay in touch."

The Farnsworth screen went dark.

 

***

 

"I can't believe Artie doesn't know who we are." Pete stood at the window of their motel room, peering out into the parking lot and to the street beyond.

"I can't believe they didn't have any rooms with two beds," said Myka. "I call dibs, Pete." She pushed down on the mattress, testing the stiffness. The springs squeaked. She peered at a spot on the comforter and pulled her hands away. "On second thought, you can have the bed."

"We have to assume they'll be looking for the rental. It's parked out of sight around back, but one of us should keep an eye peeled, just in case."

"I was right, by the way, Pete."

"About what?"

"About the artifact. It was Philip K. Dick stories, not just movies."

"Well, when we get this all sorted out, I'll make sure Artie gives you a gold star."

Myka laughed, but stopped short. Frowning, she put a hand to her head.

"What is it, Mykes?" Pete came over. "You alright?"

"Yeah, just . . . I've had a headache for a little while now. What did you just say?"

Pete grinned. "I said I'd have Artie give you a gold star."

"No, before that."

"Before that?" Pete tossed his head back, remembering, "Let's see, I said they might be tracking the rental, so—"

"That's right. I don't think Captain Fuller liked us much, and that was before I punched him out and Tesla-ed his buddy. They'll be looking for us for sure."

"Agreed," said Pete. "Well then, we'll take shifts. One of us sleeping, the other on watch."

"I don't like just sitting here, hiding, Pete."

"I don't either, but Artie and Claud will figure something out. They just need some time to work."

Rubbing her temples, Myka nodded. "Alright, then. I'll take first watch. You get some rest."

"You look tired, Mykes. Why don't I take first watch?"

"No, Pete. I need to think all of this through again. I won't be able to sleep. You go ahead."

She watched as he kicked off his shoes, then went into the bathroom and closed the door behind him. A minute later, he returned. Stood at the side of the bed and jumped onto it, landing back first. He grunted. "I think a spring just stabbed me in the kidney."

She turned away from the bed smiling, went to the window and pulled back the curtain to look outside.

"Hey, Mykes."

"Hmm?"

"Everything's gonna be alright, okay?"

She turned her head towards Pete. Felt herself nodding. "I know."

 

 

 

**SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**WAREHOUSE 13**

Claudia scrolled through the list on her tablet one final time, and then satisfied, turned off the small screen. "That is every last one of you sad, lonely artifacts. Accounted for. Safe and sound. None of you acting up or causing trouble." She stopped beside Emily Dickinson's Bedroom Window. Pointed at the wood and glass artifact resting quietly on the shelf. "All except you. Troublemaker."

She could just make out her own red hair and pale face reflected in the glass. Unable to help herself, she squinted and leaned in slightly closer. Like before, the window seemed to show not the items on the shelf behind it like it should, but the dim shadowy outline of a room somewhere else. Hints of shapes that seemed to suggest a small room, a single bed. And two figures, people.

"Oh no you don't!" Jerking away, Claudia held her finger up in warning towards the window, which now sat quiet and normal.

She opened the Farnsworth and contacted Artie.

The Farnsworth buzzed a couple of times before the screen flashed on and Artie's face appeared. He squinted up at Claudia. "Oh, it's you."

"Nice to see you, too. Who were you expecting?"

"I was hoping Pete and Myka."

"Pete and Myka?"

"Yes. They should be here. They haven't checked in. They aren't answering their Farnsworth or their cellphones."

"Do you think they're in trouble?"

"I'm a worrier, Claudia. I always think everyone is in trouble. Yes! I think something has happened. Something not good."

Her eyes flicked over to the Window. "Relax, Artie. Pete's probably just showing Myka his comic collection at the B&B and they lost track of time."

"Uh-huh." Unconvinced, Artie frowned. "You're all done I take it? Hurry up and get back here to the office."

"Aye, aye, Captain. I'm almost finished. One more thing to do."

"Claudia—"

"Ok, see ya soon, bye!"

She snapped her Farnsworth closed and faced the Window.

Letting out a nervous breath, she approached the glass. Her reflected self drew closer and closer. She reached out and gripped the frame of the window, and the image on the glass quickly morphed into the same shadowy room she'd seen a moment earlier. A small room, with the rectangular shape of a bed in the center. Two people, familiar shapes.

As she stared longer, the image cleared, crystallized. Became real. She was there with them. Pete and Myka. And they were in trouble! Even as she watched, first Myka and then Pete began to shake and convulse. Myka sprawled out on the floor, stopped moving. Pete crawled towards her, then was overcome by whatever nastiness was affecting him. He pitched onto his side, shuddering, and was still.

Concentrating every ounce of her will, Claudia pulled back, away from the image. Felt herself pop free of the Window's grip, as if being sucked back into concrete reality. For a moment, she trembled, catching her breath and reorienting to being back in the Warehouse, in the Aisle of Lonely Souls. Then she pulled her Farnsworth out once again. It was buzzing.

"Claudia," Artie growled, "don't you dare look into the Window again! It's dangerous. I forbid it. Do you—"

"You're right. Pete and Myka are in trouble."

"What?" Artie sputtered. "How do you know that? What do you know?"

"Pete and Myka, Artie. They're in trouble. Artifact trouble." She began walking quickly.

"Claudia, I told you. The Window's image is twisted. It shows the people you care about, but it shows them in pain, dying."

"But the initial image. It's accurate, isn't it? The Window shows reality first, before it twists it." Moving swiftly, she left the Aisle of Lonely Souls behind.

Artie opened his mouth, closed it. Ran a hand over his chin. "It's possible, Claudia, yes. Maybe. But—"

"Then we've gotta get to them, Artie. They need our help." She paused, glancing around at unfamiliar shelves. "And I'm lost. How do I get back to the office?"

 


	5. Chapter 5

5

**BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA**

What was she missing?

Myka paced the small room, going over all the details in her mind. Berkeley, California. Philip K. Dick. An artifact that was creating reality based on the stories of a sci-fi writer. Realities real enough that a man had exploded. People had been shot. Police had been able to predict and stop a crime from happening. And now, finally, she and Pete were seemingly erased from existence. No records. And not even their friends, Artie and Claudia, seemed to remember them.

Back and forth she paced.

Past the bed where Pete lay sprawled on his back, snoring gently, a pillow half over his face. Across the cheap motel carpet to the window. Late afternoon sun coming in around the curtain as she pulled it back once again, watched outside for any sign of possible discovery. They must assume the Berkley PD were still looking for them. Myka glanced one more time across the street at the pizza shop called Vinnie's Pizza, its name written in fat black letters on a yellow background that made her think of bumblebees.

She let the curtain fall back into place, turned and paced back past the bed. Then once more to the window. And again, past the bed.

There was something else, something she was missing. Something she could almost put her finger on. But just before she could pinpoint whatever that thing was, it would slip away out of sight, vanish. And she would have to start again, the chain of thoughts and logical reasoning that kept bringing her right to the brink of breakthrough.

She put a hand to her temple. The headache was getting worse, and it was becoming more difficult to focus, to continue to chase the elusive thread she just couldn't quite grab. The thread that would unravel the whole picture, make everything clear.

Past the bed again, then back across the carpet to the window.

Turn, bed, turn, window. Repeat. Pete.

Was it something Pete had said when they were talking to Artie and Claudia?

She was tempted to use the Farnsworth now, speak with them again and perhaps jog her memory.

_Do we look like we could hack anything?_

Past the bed, turn.

_Claudia's the hacker. Not us._

Back to the window. Stop.

Just stop it, she told herself. Stop pacing, stop thinking. Stop forcing it. Just stop.

Relax.

_Claudia's the hacker. Not us._

Remember.

_Nice hair, by the way, Claudia._

Hair?

_Nice hair, by the way, Claudia. All black, huh? Very emo. I like._

Aloud, Myka said, "Claudia's hair isn't black."

Pete stirred on the bed, groaned.

"Pete, Claudia's hair isn't black! It's red. It's been red since we met her."

He was sitting up now, rubbing his eyes.

"It was red when we left the Warehouse this morning."

"Mykes, that's right. But when we talked to her on the Farnsworth it was black." He looked up from the bed. "Honestly, did it look a little too emo to you? But what does that mean? Has something happened to Claudia? What about Artie?"

"I don't know, Pete," she said, thinking rapidly. "Maybe the artifact did more than just erase us." She shook her head, unable to put the final pieces together because of the headache, even now that the pieces were all out on the board. She and Pete had been erased. Claudia was different. What did it mean?

Frustrated, she turned to the window, pulled back the curtain again, for the twentieth or the fiftieth time. Looked out.

"Pete!" Alarmed.

"What is it?" In an instant he was off the bed. "Is it Fuller? Did they find us?" He was looking around for his gun.

"No." She sounded dazed. "It's not that."

"Mykes, what is it?"

Quickly, he was there beside her. She moved aside, made room for him in front of the window, held the curtain open. "Look."

He stared. "What is . . ." He paused. The sign across the street no longer read Vinnie's Pizza. It was now several elaborate characters of an Asian script, black on a yellow background. "That's different," he admitted. "That is . . . not English."

"It's Japanese, Pete."

"That is . . ." He shook his head in disbelief. "Well, is it still a pizza place? Man, I'm starving."

 

***

 

Stepping outside of their motel room, Pete and Myka were greeted by an entirely different city. The basic layout seemed the same, the structures and the roads, but everything written, every sign they could see had changed to Japanese. All around them, in cars and walking on sidewalks, most every person they saw also seemed to be Japanese. Vehicles were slightly different, mostly compact, and of Japanese design. Far down the street where they had passed a post office earlier, a large flagpole that had been proudly flying the red, white, and blue of Old Glory was now adorned by a large, wind-whipped white flag with the red sunrays of Imperial Japan.

"Pete."

Across the street, a pair of Japanese men who appeared to be either soldiers or police officers were interrogating a man and a woman, barking at them, gesturing with pointed fingers. After a minute of pleading, the policemen grabbed the pair, whipped them around against the nearest wall and began to handcuff them. The woman stumbled and fell to her knees, and one of the policemen kicked her in the back.

"Mykes," said Pete, low and dangerous, "we have to help them."

"Pete, I know what this is." She put a hand out, blocking Pete's path. "This is another one of Philip Dick's famous novels."

"I don't care what it is, Mykes." Brushing past her outstretched arm, Pete hurried over the asphalt parking lot towards the street. "Hey!" He called out as he darted into the road, crossing to where the policemen were taunting and laughing at their prisoners. "Hey, you! Bully-san. You want to kick someone, how about kicking me?"

The two uniformed men turned to face Pete as he stepped over the curb and approached along the sidewalk. "These people are under arrest," said one in accented English. "None of your business."

"Kicking someone who's handcuffed and on the ground where I can see it is my business, pal."

One of the soldiers drew a sword from a sheath hanging on his belt, held the blade out and ready. The other followed suit.

"Really?" said Pete, stopping short. "You guys just carry swords around everywhere?"

"Pete!" It was Myka, hurrying up from behind.

The two uniformed officers tensed to lunge at Pete.

An instant later, crackling energy burst through the air, engulfing the two Japanese policemen one after the other. They twitched and convulsed, swords clanging down onto the hard ground. A moment later, the limp bodies of the two men lay crumpled on the sidewalk too.

Pete turned, watching Myka approach with the Tesla still raised.

"I can't believe I just Tesla-ed more police officers. Japanese ones." Looking at Pete, she added. "They had swords."

"I know they had swords, Mykes. It was kind of awesome, actually, right before it was a lot terrifying."

She tucked the Tesla away, then came up and punched Pete solidly on the arm. He grunted in pain. "Are you crazy, Pete? We're in danger here. Those aren't just some random Japanese police we happened to stumble across. This whole city, Pete. The whole West Coast in fact. It belongs to the Japanese. We may as well be in Japan."

"What?"

"Philip K. Dick, Pete. He wrote a novel called The Man in the High Castle. It's what's known as an alternate history. In the book, the Allies lost World War Two. In the world of the novel, America doesn't exist as a free nation anymore. The Japanese control the Western part of America, and the Germans control the Eastern half."

"The Germans? As in, the Nazis?" Myka nodded. "The Nazis control America? Aww, man, Mykes. I don't know if I can stomach that."

"The Eastern Half of the country, anyway. Yeah, I know, Pete."

People were beginning to notice the disturbance that had just taken place. Pete and Myka were standing over two downed Japanese policemen. The handcuffed man and woman were staring at Pete and Myka, mouths agape. "Who are you people?" asked the woman. She was slim and pale. "Are you insane?"

Her companion, tall and dark-skinned, said, "They'll kill all four of us now."

"No one's killing anyone," said Pete, bending down and searching the nearer prone soldier for keys to the handcuffs. After a quick search, he found them and stood straight. "Let me uncuff you." The woman and the man came forward, allowed Pete to use the keys to unlock the handcuffs binding both.

"Okay," said Myka, looking around uncomfortably at the pointing, muttering crowd beginning to form. "We need to go."

"Do you have somewhere to hide?" Pete asked the pair.

The woman shared a meaningful look with the man, then nodded.

"Good," said Pete. "Go there. Will you be safe?"

"Safe enough," the man replied. "What about you?"

Myka cut in: "What about us, Pete? We can't stay here."

"We can't leave, Mykes. Not if the artifact is somewhere in the city."

"What if the artifact isn't here?"

Pete looked confused. "Where else would it be?"

"I have an idea about that. Let's get to the car."

"Head east," said the man, rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had dug in. "The Rocky Mountains."

"What's there?"

"The Japanese control only extends so far. You're right — the Germans rule the East coast, but the middle of the country is still free America. Denver. Go there, you might find help." He reached down the front of his shirt and withdrew a silver chain. Hanging from it was a symbol, two intersecting curved lines that together resembled a fish. "Look for this." He glanced over his shoulder. Sirens could be heard in the distance. "Go, now. And thank you." With a look towards the woman, he turned and then together the pair pushed past a couple of the gathered onlookers and raced into a nearby alley and out of sight.

"Let's not stick around to chat with the cops, Myka."

"No," she agreed. "I'm not doing well with cops today."

Together they ran across the street, back towards the motel, which was unchanged except now it seemed to have a Japanese name written in Japanese characters on the sign out front. Around back, they found what had been their rental SUV. It was now a much smaller, hatchback style car. The key, also changed, fitted the lock. A moment later, they peeled out of the motel driveway and raced away down the street.

Four police vehicles, Japanese writing scrawled on their sides, zoomed past, lights flashing and sirens wailing, headed the opposite way.

"That was close, Pete," breathed Myka.

"You think Fuller is still a cop in this world?" Pete asked. "Captain Fuller-san?"

"I don't know, Pete, maybe. But if they weren't looking for us in this reality because of what we did to Fuller, they're looking for us now because of what we just did to those two."

"Right. We need to get out of this city." He glanced down at the car's dashboard and console. "Think this thing has GPS?"

A couple of minutes poking and pushing buttons, and Myka had the GPS up and running, albeit, offering directions in Japanese. The map on the small screen together with Myka's ability with the language allowed them to follow the suggested route.

"Love that Japanese technology," said Pete. "And love me some Mykes."

 

 

 

 **SOMEWHERE IN SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**LEENA'S BED AND BREAKFAST**

"You drive like an old man, old man," said Claudia, exiting the red convertible by hopping over the side.

"The door, Claudia. Use the door. That's what it's there for." Shuffling out of the car, Artie shouted at Claudia's receding form. "How is it even faster to—" Grumbling, he hurried after her, one hand clutching his black satchel. "Claudia!"

"Hurry up, Artie," she called over her shoulder. "Pete and Myka need us." She bounded up the steps leading to the entrance of the B&B and thrust her key into the lock.

Muttering about managing safety and speed and not crashing on the way to help others, Artie climbed the wooden stairs and followed Claudia into the bed and breakfast.

"Pete!" Claudia was calling out their names. "Myka!" To Artie, she said, "I saw them in Pete's room. Come on, Artie. They need us."

"Wait! Wait!" he cried, as the young woman raced up the stairs. He made his voice as stern as possible: " _Claudia_!"

At the top of the stairs, he was pleased to find that she was waiting for him out in the hallway.

"I'm not as youthful as you are," he said, panting.

"That's an understatement of the century contender."

Raising a finger, Artie growled, "You never let up, do you? Now"—he edged past her, closer to the doorway to Pete's room—"we have to proceed carefully. Whatever it is that's affecting Pete and Myka, if we rush in there, we might end up caught in the same effect." He opened his satchel, looked inside. It was his bag of tricks and tools. Useful artifacts to be utilized in a pinch.

"I already told you what I saw, Artie," said Claudia, creeping behind him towards the doorway, peeking around his shoulder. "The Window showed me. They're both in there, sitting together on the floor, just staring at that thing. It's on Pete's nightstand."

"Slowly," said Artie, inching forward. He craned his neck, peering around the doorframe and into Pete's room. He saw Myka first, seated cross-legged on the floor, looking blankly ahead. Next, Pete came into view, sitting with his arms resting on his raised knees, hands clasped together. He was also staring ahead, unmoving. Both Pete and Myka appeared to be looking at the same thing, the artifact which had them within its grasp.

Artie went no farther. He rubbed his chin as he looked with concern upon Pete and Myka. The nightstand remained just out of sight, and sitting atop it . . .

 

 

 

**SOMEWHERE ON INTERSTATE 80, HEADED EAST**

"The Lava lamp!" said Myka, triumphantly. "It's the Lava lamp you brought back to the B&B. It makes perfect sense."

"It does?" They were racing along on the highway, away from Japanese-controlled California, towards the safety of the Free Zone of middle America, which comprised the area of the Rocky Mountains east to about the Mississippi river.

"We've been looking for an artifact that's responsible for each of these different incidents, right? First, Martin Chambers exploding. Then Steven Pouty shooting people he thought were androids. And then the Pre-Crime arrest we witnessed. Us totally losing our identities. And now the whole world is altered, Pete. America's taken over by the Japanese and the Germans. How could one artifact possibly be responsible for all of that unless we've been looking at it all wrong?"

"I'm listening, Mykes."

"There aren't multiple different effects, there's only one. It's us. We've been whammied from the very beginning. The Lava lamp you found must be connected somehow to Philip K. Dick. When you touched it, or maybe when you turned it on, that's when it started affecting us."

"So is all of this really happening? Or is it some sort of hallucination?"

"I'm not sure, Pete." She glanced out the window of the car. "It seems real enough. It's like Philip Dick stories are somehow being layered over top of our actual reality maybe."

"So what do you think we should do?"

"I think we need to call Artie again."

Myka fumbled for the Farnsworth, eventually dropping the device on the floor near her feet. She put a hand to her head. "I don't feel too good all of a sudden, Pete." She let out a long slow breath.

"You alright, Mykes?" Pete watched her with concern. "Is it still that headache?"

"I'm fine," she breathed, trying to force a smile. "What, uh . . . was I just about to do something?"

"Call Artie."

"Right." She felt her pockets for the Farnsworth, growing confused that she couldn't locate it.

"Mykes," said Pete, voice heavy with worry.

"Hmm?"

"It's on the floor. By your feet."

She laughed vacantly. "That's right." She leaned forward and picked it up. "I dropped it."

A moment later, she sat upright again, and opened the Farnsworth. It buzzed once, twice.

"Yeah? Hello?" It was Claudia's face looking up from the screen. Dark-haired Claudia.

The picture wobbled.

"Claud, it's us," said Pete. "We think we've figured it out." He eyed both the road and the Farnsworth. "Still digging the hair, by the way."

Static pierced through the picture of Claudia's face and cut through her response.

"Claudia?" said Myka, dreamily. Pete looked over with concern. Myka's head was drooping forward, as though her neck couldn't hold it up properly.

"Can you guys hear me?" asked Claudia, voice crackling but clear enough.

"We can hear you, Claudia," said Pete. "Can you hear us?"

"Barely. Where are you guys?"

"Driving. Out of California. Turns out it's run by the Japanese now."

"Man in the High Castle," said Claudia. "Whoa."

"That's what Myka said." Pete glanced over at his partner. "How you doing, Mykes?"

"Okay," she replied, scrunching her brow. "I got really dizzy for a moment." She turned her attention to the Farnsworth. "Listen, Claudia—"

A fit of static broke up Claudia's image.

Myka paused, and then with a confused look, she opened and closed her mouth a few times.

Pete, noticing, asked, "What is it?"

"I don't know," Myka replied. She reached up and put her thumb and forefinger into her mouth. When she withdrew them, she was holding something gripped between the two.

"What is that, Myka?"

They both peered at the strange blue object. "It's a flower, Pete. Look at it."

"Where did it come from?"

"I don't know," she breathed, staring wonderingly at it.

"Heya," said Claudia, through the Farnsworth. "Still here. What's going on?"

"Claud," said Pete. "Does a little blue flower mean anything to you?"

"Nothing good, why?" Static crackled.

"Claudia," said Myka. "I think something is happening to me." She put a hand to her temple, the headache still pounding. "And this flower"—she held it up in front of the Farnsworth—"I just found it in my mouth."

"Okay, that's not good. I should go get Artie."

"What is it, Claud? Another Philip Dick story?"

"Yeah," she answered, her image on the Farnsworth wobbling. "A Scanner Darkly. Another novel. Little blue flower. I mean, they didn't eat the flowers in the novel, but . . . Yeah, it has to do with this really nasty drug called Substance D that literally causes a split in the user's brain. Eventually turns you into, well, basically a vegetable. Not pretty." She winced. "Oh geez, I'm sorry, Myka."

"It's okay. But I think I'm starting to feel that effect." Myka looked with concern towards Pete.

"What's the 'D' stand for, Claudia?" he asked.

She bit her lip, hesitated before answering. "Death."

"Okay," said Pete, "we're gonna fix this." He looked at Myka. "We're gonna fix this, Mykes. Listen, Claudia, we think we know what the artifact might be."

The screen of the Farnsworth rolled and filled with static. Claudia's face reappeared briefly, then vanished once more into noise.

"Claudia, are you there?"

"Claudia!?" called Myka.

More static, then, barely audible, "Guys?" Claudia's voice broken by interference.

After a few moments trying to re-establish contact, Myka gave up and closed the Farnsworth with a sigh. "It's no use. She's gone."

"Myka, listen to me," said Pete. "You are not going to die, okay?"

She took a deep breath and nodded. "Okay."

"I've got a plan," said Pete.

"What is it?"

"If the artifact is the Lava lamp, and the Lava lamp is at the B&B, then that's where we need to be. We're going back to the Warehouse. To Leena's." He glanced over. "So hang in there, Mykes."


	6. Chapter 6

6

 **SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**LEENA'S BED AND BREAKFAST**

"It's definitely the Lava lamp," Artie said. He was in Pete's room at the bed and breakfast, with Pete and Myka and the artifact. Claudia, laptop in hand, watched him from the hallway, peeking around the corner, keeping the artifact on Pete's nightstand out of sight. Artie was wearing a bulky welding helmet on his head with the darkened face shield down. "This is the earliest existing prototype of the first arc welding helmet, designed by Frederick M. Bowers," he had explained, lowering the face shield. "The protective visor will stop the artifact in there from affecting me when I look at. Well, it should."

"Wait a minute," she had said. " _Should_?"

Presently he rejoined Claudia in the hallway, raised the face shield.

"What's that thing doing to them?" she asked. "They're just . . . sitting there." She had begun typing on her laptop as soon as Artie named the Lava lamp as their artifact. Now, she paused.

"Hard to say," said Artie. "We don't have any idea what this artifact is. Without knowing that, there's no way to—"

"Here we go!" said Claudia, excited.

"You've got something?"

"Maybe." She squinted at her screen. "Philip K. Dick! Oh boy. The science fiction writer was known to keep a Lava lamp in his home. I bet that's it! Didn't they find this thing in Berkeley? The guy lived a pretty messed up life," she told Artie, glancing up. "Did drugs, went mental, wrote tons of stories, believed that our reality was actually an illusion sitting on top of the true reality."

"Which was what?" prompted Artie.

"He had a vision, well, visions, really. Delivered by a red laser beam sent from an intelligent living satellite in space. Supposedly. VALIS, he called it. Vast Active Living, something or other, I don't remember exactly. Anyhow, he believed that it's actually still Roman times, like first century A.D., and our world, all of history, is an elaborate deception by the Devil, or some other real dark forces, hiding the true reality and our true identities from us. Keeping us confused. Obscuring the truth that we're all actually in Roman times. Early Christians, in hiding. Waiting for the imminent return of Jesus. Like, any day, now. What are you grinning for?"

"You passed up a perfectly good opportunity to joke about my age. That's all. Please, continue."

"Whatever, Articus. Listen, that's it, isn't it? What we're dealing with. PKD's Lava lamp. So what's it doing to them, and how do we get them out? Just bag it?"

"No, no. The link between Pete and Myka and the artifact is too great. If we disrupt that link without getting them out of its control first, it could permanently damage their minds. No, we need to be very careful." He glanced into the room, at the still forms of Pete and Myka. Both were seated on the floor and looking towards the Lava lamp on the nightstand as if it were an altar. "As for what it's doing"—he rubbed his chin—"it could be doing anything. If it is Philip K. Dick's Lava lamp, they may be in some sort of shared hallucination. It could be showing them false realities or nothing at all. They might be frozen in the instant of time when they first looked at the lamp, or they could be living out entire lifetimes. There's no way to tell."

"Well," said Claudia, at his shoulder. She peeked into the room, too, at Pete and Myka. "You have a plan to get them out, don't you?"

Artie opened his bag, the black satchel that he always carried, and peered inside. "I'm working on it."

 

 

 

**SOMEWHERE IN WYOMING ON INTERSTATE 80**

All through the rest of the evening and the dark of night, Pete drove them steadily east along the highway. Through Nevada, they crossed next into Utah. Passing near Salt Lake City, they continued east into Wyoming. The morning sun was rising in front of them, brilliant in Pete's tired eyes, as they approached Cheyenne. Japan or California or whatever it was exactly lay far behind them.

Beside him, Myka slept fitfully. At times seeming very much like herself, and at other times slipping into a type of quiet confusion. Within the last few hours, she had begun complaining of being cold, and Pete had previously removed his hooded sweatshirt and allowed Myka to cover herself with it. The heater roared, blowing out hot air, and now Pete pulled at the neck of his T-shirt, flapped it against his damp skin, trying to cool himself down. The sun was blinding, a fierce orange ball low in the sky directly ahead.

Despite several attempts, they had been unable to reach Artie or Claudia again on the Farnsworth, which now sat useless on the dashboard, pushed up against the front windshield between Pete and Myka.

In the passenger seat, Myka moaned and shifted position. Pete glanced over. "How you doin', Mykes?"

She sniffed, and blinked her eyes. "Chilly," she mumbled, and then sat up straighter. "Tired. Where are we?"

"We're getting there," Pete assured her. "Do you need anything?"

"The Farnsworth?" she asked, eyeing the device.

"Useless." Pete shook his head. "We're on our own for now, but once we get back to the Warehouse, Artie will help us figure this out. Just hang in there."

"Pete," she said weakly.

"Yeah, Mykes?"

"Thanks."

He nodded, watching as Myka leaned her head back and closed her eyes again.

For another hour, he drove steadily on towards Cheyenne. As they neared the city, something began to tug at him. A vibe, he realized, one growing slowly stronger as they continued east. Now that he felt it, he realized it had been there tugging at his mind for the last several minutes.

Something wasn't right.

He slapped himself in the face, waking himself up, and peered through the windshield. What was he sensing?

Before long, he figured out what it was. All the cars on the road — those driving around him in the same direction, and also in the lanes across the median heading the opposite way — were all older cars. The trucks and other vehicles too. Not just older, like a few years or a decade or two, no this was something else. Peering at each nearby vehicle one by one, he realized that every single one of them was pre-1970.

What are the odds, he wondered, that every single car and truck out here would just happen to be a vintage model?

"Mykes," he said, glancing over, "you with me?"

She opened her eyes. "Hmm?" More awake: "What is it, Pete?"

"I'm getting major vibe-age right now. Something is definitely happening. I think the story might be changing again." He pointed out all of the old vehicles.

Now, both of them watched the road and the surrounding scenery. The Cheyenne exits were approaching.

"Pete," said Myka, pointing. "Look at the gas price being advertised on that sign."

"Okay, there's no way that's the right price," he replied. "That's like a price from the sixties."

"The gas prices, Pete. All the vehicles appearing old. You said yourself, they're all vintage, pre-seventies models. What if—"

"You think we've gone back in time somehow?"

"It wouldn't be the weirdest thing that's happened today." A tremor ran through her, and she pulled Pete's sweatshirt close. "I'm so cold, Pete."

"Alright, hang on, Mykes." He swerved into the far right lane and pulled off the highway onto the next exit ramp. "Let's see if we can figure out what's going on. And hey, if gas is that price, think how cheap a burger and fries will be, Mykes." She smiled weakly.

At the end of the ramp, he turned right. Just as he began to accelerate, a flashing light appeared in the rearview mirror. A police car pulled out after them.

"You gotta be kidding me!" Pete exclaimed.

"You didn't signal," said Myka.

Pete looked at the steering column in frustration. "There's no turn signal," he replied, dumbfounded. "It was here. Now it's gone. It's like the car became an older model with us sitting right here in it."

Glancing over her shoulder at the police car behind them, Myka said, "Maybe you were supposed to use your hand?"

Carefully, Pete brought them to a stop on the dusty shoulder of the road. Just ahead, at an intersection with no traffic light, sat a small two-pump gas station. The price on the sign by the side of the road matched the one back on the highway.

The police car rolled to a stop behind them, and a moment later, the officer sauntered up to their car and peered inside. Pete rolled down the window. "Is there a problem, officer?" He put on a wide smile, glanced worriedly over towards Myka. "Listen, we're actually with the Secret Service," continued Pete, digging for his badge. "And my partner is feeling under the weather. You probably hear stories like this all the time, but, uh . . ."

The officer ignored Pete, calmly writing out a ticket in his book. He handed the slip to Pete and then without a word walked back towards his own vehicle.

Pete looked at Myka. "Well, that was weird. Don't cops talk in the Sixties? Hey, at least you didn't Tesla this one." Myka forced another smile. "I hope they don't expect me to show up in court," Pete laughed, looking down at the ticket in his hand.

The ticket wasn't filled out. Instead, the officer had written a short note on the reverse side.

> Your time is running out. Check that service station for All-Purpose UBIK. It will help prevent further decay.

"What the heck is UBIK?" Pete held out the ticket bearing the strange scrawled note towards Myka.

"Pete," she said after studying it for a minute, "this is Artie's handwriting."

"Artie? Are you sure?"

"Positive. Don't you recognize it?"

"How the—" Pete whipped his head around, but the patrol car was already driving away in the opposite direction.

"That name is familiar," said Myka.

Forgetting about the police officer, Pete turned back to Myka. "What name? UBIK?"

She nodded. "I think it's another Philip Dick novel."

"Of course it is," Pete muttered. "But you haven't read it?"

Myka shook her head.

"Well," said Pete, putting the car in gear. "Somehow Artie got a message to us. I guess we should go check it out." He indicated the gas station just ahead. "Whatever this UBIK is." He pulled back onto the road, wheels crunching across the gravel shoulder. He drove them to the gas station. "Good thing I can drive stick," he said, shaking his head at the altered controls of the car. "If this keeps up, we'll be riding a horse and buggy to the Warehouse."

 

 

 

 **SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**LEENA'S BED & BREAKFAST**

"Is that thing hurting them?" Claudia watched from the hallway as Artie examined Pete and Myka.

"Myka's heart rate is a bit erratic. Pete seems fine for the moment. But since we don't know what the artifact is doing to them, we shouldn't let them linger in there any longer than necessary."

"Does that mean you have a plan? You know how to wake them up."

"I might have a plan. Yes." He returned to the hallway, next to Claudia, and began digging once more through his black bag. "I think . . ." He shuffled the contents around. "It just might . . . yes! That's it. It may just do the trick."

"What? What is it? Tell me, Articus." She glanced at the old man. "That is totally you're new nickname by the way."

Artie muttered something foreign sounding under his breath.

"What?"

"Latin. Which is what they spoke in Rome, by the way. It means, child, you are a pain in my"—he withdrew an item—"yes! Here it is!" He handed the bulky object to Claudia.

"What are we going to do with this?" It was a metal-framed light, sort of like a lantern. The bulb was red.

"If I'm right? Wake up Pete and Myka."

"And if you're not right?" They shared a look. "Stupid question. Nevermind. You've got this, Articus. Red-haired girl shutting up now."

 

 

 

**SOMEWHEN IN CHEYENNE, WYOMING**

"Apply liberally," said Pete, reading the label on the aerosol can. "Guaranteed to freshen up even the most stubborn stale odors, liven up faded colors, and add years to the life of your most precious possessions with its patented protective formula." He searched the can for ingredients, but found no further information. "What the heck is this stuff?"

"It does the trick." Pete looked up, found the teenage cashier watching him. The pimply-faced boy gestured to the can he was holding. "My girlfriend used that stuff when she was under the weather with mono. It pepped her right up."

"It heals people, too?" Pete shook his head dubiously. "I don't know. Where I come from, when something is too good to be true it's probably . . ." He looked back down at the can. "An artifact," he breathed.

"Where are you from?" asked the cashier. "Around here?"

"Uh, South Dakota," Pete answered, distracted. His mind was racing. Artifacts behaved like this; but then, he and Myka were already trapped within the effect of an artifact, so maybe the odd can of UBIK, a creation of the author Philip K. Dick, was just a component of the reality-altering effect generated by the Lava lamp. "How much?" he asked.

"Forty dollars."

"Forty bucks? That seems a bit expensive for . . . whenever this is." But if it could actually help them, it would be worth it. After all, it was the strange note written by the police officer on the back of that ticket, but actually sent to them somehow from Artie, which had brought him here. Led him to this odd can of whatever.

Pete dug out his wallet and peered inside. All of his bills had reverted to earlier versions, all dated from the Forties and Fifties. At least he wouldn't have to try and explain why his money had future dates stamped on them. And thankfully, he had just enough to pay for the expensive spray can. As he handed over the money, he caught sight of a notepad resting on the counter, the top sheet of which was filled with doodles. The same doodle, over and over. That fish-shaped symbol, the two intersecting curved lines. The symbol which that man back in Japanese Berkeley had told him to watch out for. The teenage cashier gave Pete his change and flashed a secretive smile.

Thanking the kid, Pete hurried outside.

"Alright, Mykes," he said, standing at her lowered window. "I got it." He held the can up for her inspection.

"How do we use it?"

"Just spray it on us, I guess. Whatever we want to stop going backwards in time." He raised the can. "Well, here goes nothing." He pressed the nozzle and sprayed the contents all over himself. Next he reached inside the passenger window. "Close your eyes," he told Myka, before covering her head to feet in the strange spray.

"Smells lemon-y," said Myka, sniffing.

"A little, said Pete. He opened the back door of the car, sprayed more within. He coated the whole exterior of the car, sprayed under the hood, got the tires, and finally inside around the driver's side, the steering wheel and the dashboard.

"There we go," he said, shaking the now-empty can. "Hope it does the trick." He climbed inside the car, tossed the empty aerosol can into the backseat. "That cost me forty bucks." Crestfallen, he added, "I didn't get a receipt."

Ahead, an antique car puttered past, going maybe twenty miles an hour. "Okay, that is an _old_ car, Mykes. Time is still slipping back. We have to hurry."

"I feel a little better," she replied. She was moving his sweatshirt aside. "Not as cold. My head still feels . . . not quite right."

"Hang on just a bit longer. Next stop, Leena's."

 

***

 

Pete looked forlornly at the stopped car. "I wasn't counting on gas stations no longer existing." He turned and stared off in the direction they had been travelling. "We're so close. I'm sorry, Myka."

"It's okay." She was leaning heavily on the silent, unmoving car.

"We should only be a few miles from Leena's. Assuming it's still there. Of course, it won't be Leena's. Mykes, what if we're too far back and the B&B is gone? Are we stuck here?"

"I don't know, Pete."

From back along the dirt road came the sound of an approaching buggy. "Do you hear that, Myka?"

Together, they waited and watched.

A moment later, the buggy, a black horse at its head, came into view. The driver was a man. Seated with him on the bench were a woman, likely his wife, and two small children, all of them dressed in old-fashioned dress clothes. The buggy slowed and stopped.

"Need you assistance, sir?" called the man. "Madam?"

"Yes! Yeah, we do! Myka"—Pete turned to his partner—"we're saved."

"What manner of vehicle is that?" asked the man.

"The not moving kind," Pete told him. "Our horses sort of split. Listen, can we get a ride with you folks? About five miles farther up this way. There should be a bed and breakfast there. An inn, do you know it?"

"Aye, I know it."

"You are dressed rather oddly," said the woman, from the seat beside her husband.

"Well, we were dressed for, uh, work." Pete looked down at himself. Myka had his hooded sweatshirt. He was wearing a plain gray T-shirt, slacks. Sneakers. The woman's clothes appeared quaint and old-fashioned to Pete, turn of the century.

She whispered something to her husband, who shook his head. She whispered with more animation. Again, her husband shook his head. She hissed something, which Pete caught part of — something about their children. Finally, the man appeared to relent.

"Alas, friend, we're in a hurry and must be on our way." He looked apologetic. "I am sorry." He moved to urge the horse onward.

"Wait! Please, stop!" Pete thrust his badge forward. "United States Secret Service," he cried. "We need your vehicle."

"Secret Service?" The couple shared a confused look.

"Federal agents," called Myka, brandishing the Tesla. The family looked wide-eyed at the strange weapon.

"What on Earth is that?" asked the woman, covering her mouth with a hand. The younger of the two children began to cry. The woman hugged the child close, stroked th child's hair.

"Sorry," said Myka, grimacing. She tried to stand straight, but fell back against the car, too weak to remain upright unassisted. "But, we really need your buggy."

 

***

 

"The President?" asked the bewildered man, staring up at Pete and Myka, who were now seated on the bench that he and his family had just vacated. "Of the United States?" The man and his family were standing together on the side of the road.

"That's right," answered Myka.

Pete, meanwhile, was looking with some confusion at the reins.

"What exactly is the President doing in South Dakota?" asked the woman, frowning.

"Umm." Myka searched for an answer. "Campaigning."

"Ready, Mykes?" asked Pete, fumbling with the reins.

"Do you know what you're doing?" she whispered.

"Not really."

"Give me those," she demanded. She took the reins from him, slapping at his hand and ignoring his look of concern. "I'm okay, I've got it." A quick wave of light-headedness came and passed. "Thank you, again," she called to the family standing at the side of the road.

"Your country thanks you, too," said Pete. He tossed the keys for the rental car to the man, who caught them deftly out of the air. He looked at the keys oddly. "It's all yours," Pete said, as the buggy began moving. "It's a stick shift now. But it drives great. It needs a tank of gas, though. You'll probably have to wait a while until gas stations are invented."

A moment later when Pete looked back, the family was still standing where they'd left them, watching as their horse and buggy rumbled farther and farther away.

 


	7. Chapter 7

7

**SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**LEENA'S BED AND BREAKFAST**

Claudia watched as Artie knelt on the floor in Pete's room, messing around with one of the electrical outlets. He was rigging up an adapter for the vintage metal-framed lantern.

"What exactly is that thing?" she asked.

"The portside light from the _RMS Empress of Ireland_." He tested his mechanical fussing. The red light flared into life. "She collided with another ship in a thick fog and sank. A lot of people died. Very bad." Grunting, he stood. With the lantern connected to an extension cord, he was able to carry it over to Pete and Myka, who continued to sit and stare vacantly at the Lava lamp. "I'm hoping it will get through to Pete and Myka. Pierce through whatever it is that they're seeing, like a sort of signal flare."

Artie looked towards Claudia, his face hidden by the shield of the welding helmet. "Reach into my bag," he said, "there at your feet. Carefully! Carefully reach in and get the magnifying glass. Don't touch anything else in there."

"Alright," she said, "magnifying glass. Got it." She poked through the bag, found the ordinary looking magnifying glass and withdrew it.

"Give it here, give it here," said Artie, holding the lantern in one hand and extending the other towards Claudia.

"What is this?" she asked, grinning. "Let me guess. Sherlock Holmes's magnifying glass?"

"Holmes is just a fictional character," Artie said curtly.

"Yeah, obviously, gramps. Conan Doyle, then?" Artie snatched it from her hand. "What's it do?"

"It's a magnifying glass," he grumbled. "It magnifies things. Get back in the hallway. I don't want you looking at that Lava lamp accidentally."

"Artie, I can help."

He grumbled some more, looking at the lantern he carried in one hand and the magnifying glass in the other. Behind and to his right, the Lava lamp glowed and flowed, sitting atop Pete's nightstand. It didn't seem to possess any sort of compulsion power, such as urging one to gaze upon it. Being near it seemed safe enough, so long as one didn't look at it.

"Alright, alright," Artie said. "Look at me, Claudia. At me." She peeked around the doorframe, met Artie's glare. "Close your eyes." She did so. "Keep them closed. And now come into the room. Slowly, that's it. Step forward. Another step."

He guided her step by step until she reached the wall beside the nightstand and the Lava lamp. There, he had her turn her back to the lamp and kneel down against the wall. "Reach out," he told her. "Carefully." At Artie's direction, her fingers touched the wall, then brushed against an electrical cord. "Easy," Artie said. "That's the cord for the Lava lamp. When I tell you, not before, you unplug it."

"What are you going to do?"

Artie adjusted the shield on the welder's helmet, and got himself into position in front of Pete and Myka. He raised the _Empress of Ireland_ 's Portside Light.

"Articus? What are you doing?"

"Keep your eyes closed," Artie warned her. "Unplug the lamp when I say so."

The red glow from the ship's light shone on everything in the room, Pete and Myka included. But too diffused. It needed to be focused. Letting out a cautious breath, Artie raised the magnifying glass. He aimed the intense spot of red light that passed through it towards Myka.

 

 

 

**SOUTH DAKOTA**  
**NOT YET LEENA'S BED AND BREAKFAST**

"It's just like the Leena's we know," said Pete. "Only old-timey." He stepped down off the porch and approached the horse and buggy where Myka rested. "There's no one here, though, and no Lava lamp either. How are you holding up, Mykes?"

"Holding up," she murmured.

"Mykes?" With concern, Pete hurriedly climbed up beside her. "You okay, Mykes?"

"Don't feel so good."

"Hang on. If the bed and breakfast is here, then the Warehouse is too. Maybe Artie and Claud won't be there. But somebody will be. We'll fix this." Taking the reins, he urged the horse forward. "Go! Come on," he told it. "Mush. Mush. Kee-ya!" The buggy began crunching over the rocky ground. "There," said Pete, satisfied. "This isn't so hard.

"You say 'mush' to sled dogs," Myka said weakly beside him.

He laughed, and she managed a smile.

They moved away from the bed and breakfast, kicking up a cloud of dust, cutting across the empty South Dakota landscape towards the Warehouse.

 

***

 

"It's there! Mykes! It's there. Oh man, am I glad to see the Warehouse." The horse brought the buggy around the curve of a hill, and then started across the flat plain. Pete urged it on. They sped over the hard bumpy ground towards the entrance to the Warehouse. "Mykes?"

On the bench beside him, Myka sat with her head leaning to the side. She was awake, eyes staring ahead at the barren rocky landscape and the familiar, massive metal structure looming ahead. "I see it," she whispered.

The horse slowed on its own as they approached the Warehouse, and pulling on the reins, Pete brought it to a halt.

He hopped off the buggy, calling out, "Hello?" He rushed over and began to bang on the Warehouse door. "Hello? Is anybody there?" His banging echoed hollowly, unanswered. The wind whipped dust through the air.

"Pete."

He turned around in time to see Myka, who had climbed down from the buggy and was walking haltingly towards him, suddenly collapse onto the ground.

"Myka!" He raced to where his partner lay on the hard earth. "Myka!" He rolled her onto her back and looked down at her wide-open, empty eyes.

She let out a long, slow breath. "Pete." Her voice was a ragged whisper.

"Help!" called Pete. "Artie! Anybody! Help us!" He raised his head, looked desperately around for something or someone that could help him to help Myka. "Somebody, please—"

Any further words died on his lips. Stunned, Pete sat heavily on the hard ground beside Myka.

The Warehouse was gone.

Where it should have been—where it _had been_ just a moment earlier—there was only the flat plain and the hard brown hills beyond. The Warehouse was simply gone, as if it had never existed.

"No," said Pete, staggering to his feet. "No, no, no." He stumbled over to where he'd just been banging on the metal door. The entrance to the Warehouse. It was no longer there. The entire structure was just . . . gone.

Something fluttering on the ground caught his attention. He walked quickly over and picked up the scrap of paper. On it were printed, block letters.

> WAREHOUSE 13

Pete staggered back. Somehow, the Warehouse had vanished, and in its place, this slip of paper was all that remained.

He turned his head in time to see the horse and buggy begin to dematerialize before his eyes. Breaking down into component shapes and colors and finally into molecules and atoms too small to see, winking out of existence as he watched. The hills beyond became visible, the sky and the earth. The buggy and the horse were gone.

He rushed over, found another slip of paper on the ground where they had been.

> HORSE AND BUGGY

"Mykes!" he breathed, staring at the printed words. "Myka." He turned his head. "I don't—"

He let out a wail of frustration and agony. The spot on the ground where Myka had been lying was empty. There was no sign of his partner. No sign of anyone or anything. Not even a slip of paper left in her place. "No!" He turned his face upwards, cried out to the sky above. "Myka!"

And then he saw it.

The red beam of light, coming right for him from somewhere far away, far above the Earth. It struck him with tangible force, piercing his skull, blinding him with its brilliance, filling his head with knowledge and information.

He understood. All of it. What was real, what was illusion. The purpose of everything, the great deception. The hidden reality of where he was, where they all were, and his identity. Who he was. Pete.

Someone was leaning over him now, calling his name.

"Pete!"

Someone with dark hair. A familiar, concerned face. A dangling necklace, a pair of intersecting curved lines shaped like—

"Pete! Can you hear me?"

He blinked.

"Pete?"

"Claudia?" He rubbed his eyes.

"Yeah," she said, smiling and squeezing back tears. "It's me."

"Where'd your fish go?" he asked, dazed, looking at her bare neck.

"My what?"

"Your hair," he said. "It's red."

"What other color would it be?"

"I don't know. Black."

"Black?" She touched her hair with one hand. "Hmm. I don't know. Emo much?"

She grinned and Pete laughed. He stopped suddenly. "Myka?!"

"Here, Pete." He turned his head and found Myka resting comfortably, leaning back against the edge of his bed. Artie was kneeling beside her, one hand on her shoulder. On his head, Artie was wearing a bizarre helmet with a darkened face shield that was currently raised. "I'm fine," said Myka. "We're back at Leena's."

"This is my room," said Pete, looking around. "Ah!" He noticed the Lava lamp, sitting dark now that it was unplugged. The wax inside was beginning to settle towards the bottom. "That thing," he said, pointing. "It's an artifact."

"Oh, we know," said Claudia. "It belonged to—"

"Philip K. Dick," Pete breathed. "So none of it really happened?" He shared a look with Myka.

"What exactly happened to you two?" asked Claudia. "What did it do to you?"

"Oh man," said Pete. "Where to start? A guy exploded because he was actually a robot from outer space, or maybe he wasn't. Then a guy decided to act out Bladerunner, shooting people he thought were androids. Then the cops went all Minority Report on some guy. Myka and I had our lives totally erased and had to go on the run. You were there, Claudia. And you Artie. You sent us that message about the spray can."

Artie scrunched up his brow. "Spray can? What spray can?"

"That was after time started going backwards. Before that, California was taken over by the Japanese. And Myka"—Pete looked at his partner—"she was sick."

"But I'm better now, Pete."

"Then everything disappeared," he continued. "The Warehouse. The horse and buggy."

"Horse and buggy?" asked Claudia.

"And all that was left were these slips of paper that said the name of the thing that was gone."

"Sounds like you were taking a serious tour through all of PKD's stories," said Claudia, eyes wide. "I've read pretty much everything he ever wrote."

"Right," said Pete, "when you were in the psych hospital."

"Yeah," said Claudia, confused. "How did you know that? Have I mentioned PKD before? He's like—"

Pete spoke the words with her: "—required reading."

Claudia stared, mouth open. "Okay, how did you—?"

"Ahem," said Artie. He patted Myka on the arm, and then stood. "I believe it's time to bag this artifact," he said, motioning towards the Lava lamp. "Pete? Myka? Which of you two wants to do the honor?"

The two Agents looked at one another. "It's my bad," said Pete, sighing. "I'm the one who brought it here." He stood and walked to the nightstand. Claudia handed him one of the neutralizing artifact bags. "Thank you, Artie. Claudia. For getting us out of there. See, this is why I don't read books, you guys. I'm just glad everyone's okay. I'm glad you're okay, Mykes." He picked up the Lava lamp and held it over the open bag.

"It's alright, Pete," said Myka, climbing unsteadily to her feet. "I was right, by the way."

"About what?"

"About the artifact. About Berkeley. It wasn't just a coincidence that we had to go there again."

"Oh no," said Artie, beside her. "There's no such thing. Nothing is ever just a coincidence."

"See?" said Myka, pleased.

"Except for when it is."

Groaning, Myka said, "Artie!"

Claudia laughed, Artie grinned, and Pete dropped the Lava lamp into the bag, generating a flash and a shower of sparks.

"Alright," he said, holding the bag up, "it's over. Now everyone get out of my room. Come on, give a guy his space."

"I can't believe I put up with the man-smell for as long as I did," said Claudia, hurrying out.

"The masculine ooze, you mean? You really need to clean up in here, Pete," said Myka, exiting.

"Hey," Pete called after her, "you made a little kid cry in there, you know."

"Alright, everyone," growled Artie, "enough talking. Get your butts over to the Warehouse. Let's go. Go! We're behind now on inventory, thanks to Pete and Myka's little science fiction adventure."

"Aw man, Artie," said Pete, following the others from his room. "You mean that part was real? Inventory?"

 

**THE END**

 


End file.
